


Pacts and Promises

by Herodutus280



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, F/M, Fantasy, Incest, Politics, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:21:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 35,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26331814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Herodutus280/pseuds/Herodutus280
Summary: Rhaegar may have defeated Eddard Stark and the rebellion at the Trident, but the murder of Elia Martell and their infant son Aegon Targaryen by Robert Baratheon afterwards will forever haunt his reign.  Elia's surviving daughter, Rhaenys Targaryen, has promised to avenge their murder and nothing and no one will stop her.  Jon Snow, the bastard of Lady Lyanna Stark of Winterfell, only desires to protect his mother from the schemes festering in the Red Keep.  Their meeting and the pact they forge together will shake the foundations of the world.
Relationships: Arianne Martell/Jon Snow, Cersei Lannister/Rhaegar Targaryen, Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Jon Snow/Rhaenys Targaryen (Daughter of Elia), Other Relationship Tags to Be Added, Rhaenys Targaryen/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 125
Kudos: 200





	1. Prologue: The King Who Promised

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction. All credit for the creation of the world of Westeros and its inhabitants is credited to George R. R. Martin and his book series, "A Song of Ice and Fire." Additional credit goes to HBO and its adaptation of Martin's works in the form of "Game of Thrones" for its inspiring visuals and performance. This work was not created for profit. It was only created for the enjoyment of others.  
> Please enjoy this fan fiction and leave a comment if you do. Reviews are appreciated and encouraged. Please remain respectful and polite towards the fan fiction author and fellow commentators.
> 
> (This work was previously published under the author's former pseudonym of 'Baldr501.')

_“The Dragon must have three heads."_

_Rhaegar walked through the stone corridors, watching the proud Targaryen banners flutter along the walls. A red dragon with three heads rampant on a solid black field. His family sigil. The sign of conquerors and heroes with fire in their hearts and magic in their blood._

_Screams._

_He turned toward the balcony and saw the smoke rise in great columns above King's Landing. Soldiers yelled in fury and people cried out in terror. Banners of the red dragon mixed with that of the golden lion in the street, waving amongst the throng of warriors and weeping women._

_The result of his father's command._

_He now turned toward the doors, iron and gold shaped into figures of legend that guarded the gateway to the seat of kings. Aegon, Rhaenys, and Visenya riding upon the dragons Balerion, Meraxes, and Vhagar in glory and triumph. Rhaegar raised a hand to open the doors to the throne room beyond them._

_“The Dragon must have three heads.”_

_Rhaegar glanced at the goblet in his hand and the liquid inside it, wondering for the last time if this was his only recourse._

_He steeled his resolve and opened the doors and stepped inside, his footsteps echoing off the walls decorated with the skulls of dragons. Braziers lit with fire crackled at the bases of columns that reached high into the vault of the throne room. Tapestries depicting the glory of House Targaryen covered the walls; Aegon's Conguest, Daeron's Campaign in Dorne, the building of the Great Sept of Baelor, and even his father's victories in the War of Ninepenny Kings. Rhaegar briefly thought about what tapestries the maesters would put up of him one day. His triumphs? His failures?_

_At the back of the hall stood the capstone of his family's legacy; the Iron Throne. It was made from the swords of all the lords and soldiers Aegon and his sisters had defeated in battle three centuries earlier. Thousands upon thousands of twisted, blackened steel formed into an enormous throne that absolutely dominated both the room and the seven kingdoms beyond it. Rhaegar's mind had long dwelled upon the Iron Throne and what he would do with the power invested in it once he sat upon it. He had dreamt of peace, once, and the glory of a new golden age for his house; all without a drop of blood being shed. It would have been heralded by his son and his sisters, a rebirth of the old to bring about the new._

_Those dreams were dust now. They had been the dreams of a boy, filled with the thoughts of the glory and gladness that would follow his ascension. He had sought prophecy to protect his family's legacy, and he had hoped beyond hope that his efforts had not been in vain._

_Damn his father and his love of wildfire. It had almost been the end of House Targaryen._

_He knew better now. Rhaegar's vision for the future, his dream of glory for House Targaryen, could only be purchased through Fire and Blood. So it had been for his ancestors, so it would be for him. He had come too far to hesitate now._

_“You have always been weak,” a voice said scathingly, cutting through the silence. “Dreams are desires that torment us with their impossibility. They seem real, but they are naught but fantasy for fools. Dragons desire dominance! Do not dare to dream.”_

_Rhaegar peered up at his father, perched like a vulture on the Iron Throne. Aerys's beard was white as bone and twisted as the roots of a tree. The nails on his fingers were yellow with age and they curled like claws upon the pommels of melted swords. His smile revealed his teeth, yellow and black from lack of care._

_It was his father's eyes that held Rhaegar's heart hostage. The violet amethyst that were sunk deep into his father's skull were the same in Rhaegar's own head. Rhaegar could barely stand to stare at his own eyes in the mirror sometimes, afraid that he would one day peer into his own reflection and see his father's madness staring right back at him._

_Aerys's voice was silver though, as calming and beguiling even when all his other features screamed madness. It had been his one great talent, the ability to tempt, charm, and persuade his enemies and allies alike. If it were not for his madness, Rhaegar imagined that his father could have been like Jaehaerys the Conciliator. Rheagar may have been called the ‘silver prince,' but it was his father who had always possessed the silver tongue._

_Aerys smiled down at him with his yellow teeth in mockery. “Have you finally come to claim what is yours? Or are you Tywin's toy? I always knew he would betray me, … but I thought you had more sense than to lay with lions.”_

_“Why?” Rhaegar asked. The words were dragged from his throat. “Why did you order the pyromancers to destroy King's Landing with wildfire? The rebellion was over! I had Robert Baratheon in chains and the rebel lords were willing to negotiate with me! But now Baratheon has escaped in all the chaos your pyromancers caused! Those lords will not treat with me if they think the Targaryens will blow them up anyway!” He took a deep breath, his anger boiling over into fury. All his plans, all his hopes, all for nothing because of his mad father. “Tywin came to the Battle of the Bells because I commanded it! He understood the necessity of House Targaryen's rule! Without him, I doubt Baratheon would have been captured before Houses Stark, Arryn, and Tully came down from the North!”_

_Aerys waved a hand in dismissal, ignoring all of Rhaegar's logic and reason. He leaned back, for once comfortable sitting upon the barbs of the Iron Throne. His oily voice dripped arrogance disguised as confidence. “They're all the same; stags, lions, and fish. Even the wolves, ancient though they are. None can compare to the wrath of the dragon.”_

_Rhaegar sometimes wondered how he had had ever respected this man, even before the madness. How could he have ignored it for so much time? He had danced to Aerys ’ s tune for far too long. He had let the rule of Westeros be managed by a raving madman, and now Rhaegar would have to pay the price for his father's neglect. “The dragons are **dead**!” he screamed. His yell echoed all around them, bouncing off the stone walls. “I am only flesh and bone! I cannot rule the Seven Kingdoms like you did! I won't!” He remembered then the promise he had made to his mother, so many years ago, murmured with hushed tones in the shadows of the castle._

_“You're wrong boy,” Aerys whispered. His eyes moved from Rhaegar to look beyond him. Rhaegar had seen this before, when his father was in the deepest grips of his madness. Aerys had claimed it was his ‘dragon eye.’ Seeing beyond sight. “I am a dragon, fierce and proud. The wolf whines and the lion lies while the stag starves, but the dragons dance. Do not speak to me as if those lords were worthy of my attention! They are dogs, scratching and biting each other for the scraps from my table. I have been lenient to them of late, a mistake I will correct in due time. I gave them wine when I should have given them the whip!”_

_Aerys laughed as if he had made a jest, sending chills down Rhaegar's spine. His father reached out a hand and grasped at the air, pretending to clutch something. “I saw the wolves as they choked on their leash, snapping at the hand that chained them. The North is befouled by old magic. Not the magic of Valyria. Not fire, but ice. Ice that has clung to them for centuries like a stink. Feral beasts! The Starks are the worst of the northmen, making pacts with demons! Demons with three eyes that speak through white trees! I will burn them. BURN THEM! I will burn away all of their taint, as Aegon should have from the very beginning! Fire and ice cannot coexist. One should not yield to the Other.”_

_“Is that why you burned Rickard Stark?” Rhaegar asked. He had not cared for the lord and his son, but his father's actions had terrible consequences that Rhaegar had not been prepared to pay for._

_“Yes, I burned him. Him and his feral wolf. He could not withstand the dragon's breath!” Aerys chuckled darkly. “You are my seed, and though you are weak, I will not have the wolf mock it.” Aerys held out a hand and pointed at Rhaegar with a thin finger in accusation. “Where is the bitch you ran off with? Lyanna Stark? I would like to add her hide to my collection of wolf pelts.”_

_Rhaegar's first instinct was to deny it, as he had to all others who had asked the same question. He had taken great measures to ensure that he could not be accused of Lyanna's disappearance. How Brandon Stark had discovered it was unknown to Rhaegar. There was no point though in attempting to conceal the truth, as only Rhaegar and Aerys were here. Only one of them were leaving this room alive._

_“Lyanna is in Dorne, with Visenya in her womb," Rhaegar said, struggling to keep the triumph from entering his voice. He would finally have his three heads for the dragon. “She will be Queen Consort alongside Elia when she arrives here with my daughter.”_

_Aerys froze, staring at Rhaegar as if he did not know him. “You fool … were you so blinded by love that you would mate with that bitch?!” Aerys ’ s face twisted in rage. “Bring her here then, I will but breathe and set your whore and her mongrel aflame!”_

_Rhaegar himself was made uneasy, not by his father's threat, but by his accusation of love. “Love does not blind me, but in time Lyanna shall respect me as Elia does. It may become love one day, once they see the necessity of my deeds.” In a way, it felt good to confess this, even if it would again become a secret soon. “Elia was of the south, so I needed the north. They are the balance that have brought forth the Prince That Was Promised and his brides. I will raise them to be the rulers this world needs. My son Aegon will bring about a new era of magic that will raise House Targaryen even beyond the glory of Old Valyria.”_

_Aerys sat on the throne, infuriated, for a handful of moments before his enraged expression melted away to mirth. His father's moods had always been mercurial, changing from one breath to the next like the whimsical winds of the world._

_Aerys threw back his head and laughed while slamming his arm onto the Iron Throne. Rhaegar could see flecks of blood fly as the blades bit into Aerys's body. Aerys did not seem to notice though, as he continued to laugh at Rhaegar._

_“And they call me the Mad King!” Aerys guffawed. He slammed his fist into the throne with a loud clang. “I am the only one who's SANE!!!”_

_Rhaegar stepped back despite himself, surprised by the fervor in his father's declaration._

_“The Prince That Was Promised,” Aerys spat disgustedly. “My father listened to the ramblings of a common woods witch that prophesied that your precious prince would be born from the line of myself and your mother and dragons would dance in the sky once more! He was a fool, like his own father, who believed he could conjure dragons from rocks. Have you seen the result of their foolish dreams; I, the king of dragons, married to a weak woman who could barely bring forth children and Summerhall, a Targaryen palace, was destroyed along with much of House Targaryen.” Aerys stared at Rhaegar, as if imparting some great wisdom. “They paid for their foolishness with their lives. Grandfather died by fire and father died gasping for breath. I know the secret of my House! Dragons do not come from stone or prophecy, but from fire and blood.”_

_Rhaegar let out a sigh in frustration. As always, their conversation had become circular. His father had always believed in the greatness of House Targaryen, one of the few things Rhaegar was not ashamed to share with Aerys, but his father believed that to be a member of House Targaryen meant that one was an actual dragon. Of course, only Aerys himself believed that he was strong enough to be a dragon. That is why Rhaegar had always fallen short of glory in his father's eyes. He was not as fierce or possessive as Aerys was. Dragons possessed everything and bowed to no one._

_Madness, all of it. He did not know why he now encouraged it. Perhaps he felt that he wanted to share some last words with his father before the end came?_

_Rhaegar put on a mummer's face and offered the goblet to his father. It was time to bring this farce to an end. A false smile of gratitude stretched across his face as his arm stretched out towards his father, goblet in hand. He had always known how to bring about his father's end, but never had he possessed the conviction to follow through. “You are right, father. I am a fool just as they were. Here, drink this, and wake the dragon.”_

_Aerys glanced at the offered goblet and sneered at Rhaegar. “You come to me with sweet words and poisoned drinks. Do I vex you so Rhaegar? Have you grown weary of my rule?”_

_Rhaegar stepped back from the Iron Throne, patient and polite. “I bring you a challenge. Fulfill destiny where others failed. Drink, take flight, and turn your enemies to ash. Show Westeros the true strength of a dragon.”_

_“… true strength,” Aerys whispered, almost reverent. He tapped a single finger on the throne, considering. His eyes stared at the goblet, unblinking, mesmerized by the emerald liquid. Aerys finally lifted his eyes to lock them on Rhaeger's. He then spoke to Rhaegar menacingly, his voice filled with murderous intent. “You do not understand. You have never understood. I have taught you time and time again what it means to be a Targaryen and still you do not heed me. It will be your undoing, my son. Your talent for ignoring the wisdom of others will end you." His hand flashed out and he snatched the goblet from Rhaegar's grasp. Aerys reached down with the other claw and pulled Rhaegar up to where they were but inches apart. His voice was a malicious hiss in Rhaegar ’ s ear. “Don't dream that you will be pardoned from my wrath. A dragon has no need for heirs.” Aerys shoved Rhaegar back and he tumbled down the Iron Throne, landing on the cold stone below._

_He looked up just in time to see his father bring the goblet to his lips._

_Rhaegar grinned. With this act, he could finally move forward. He couldn't resist having the final word though. “To your long reign, father.”_

_Aerys hesitated, a shadow of doubt flickering across his scarred face, and then he smiled. A strange gleam sifted through his eyes. He lifted the goblet with a mock salute to Rhaegar._

_His father's last words would haunt Rhaegar forever._

_“No son, to yours.”_

_Aerys tossed the goblet back and consumed the wildfire. The king consumed the concoction as if he were dying of thirst._

_Rhaegar had read the accounts of what had happened when Aerion Brightflame had drunk wildfire. He was morbidly fascinated to see the results in person._

_As soon as the last drop passed Aerys's lips, flames burst out from behind his eyes. Emerald fire filled his mouth and leapt out like a serpent's tongue. His arms started violently shaking as he reached up towards his face. No scream was heard, only the crackling of the fire as it consumed his father's body. The entire throne room was illuminated in emerald light by Aerys's death throes. After only a moment, the wildfire erupted all over his body in a flash of emerald flames._

_The crown of Aegon the Unworthy clattered down the steps of the Iron Throne._

_A few moments, and everything in Westeros had changed. Aerys Targaryen, second of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm was nothing more than a pile of ash._

_And Rhaegar was king._

_The hall was silent. Nothing broke the solemnity of Rhaegar's ascension. The start of his reign was applauded with the silence of sound._

_Rhaegar leaned back against the base of the Iron Throne and relaxed. That in itself was a monumental feat considering Aegon the Conqueror had designed his throne to be utterly uncomfortable, believing that a king should never sit easy on the throne._

_He felt as if the weight of the Red Keep itself had been lifted from his shoulders. All his plans, his thoughts for the future of House Targaryen and the world, all of this was now in his grasp without his mad father interfering. Rhaegar would never again have to hide behind tournaments and celebrations to plan and discuss the future of Westeros without his father's paranoia looming over his shoulder like the headman's ax._

_In some distant corner of his soul, he was grieved that it had come to this._

_But he was free._

_Finally, **finally** , he was free!_

_Rhaegar stood up and placed his foot on the bottom step of the throne and began his ascent. Once he got to the seat, he picked up the burnt crown laying there and cast it aside. It clattered across the stone into a dim corner of the throne room._

_Rhaegar Targaryen sat on the Iron Throne of Westeros._

_The torches that lined the hall dimmed and darkness descended. Wind swept through the room, blowing in smoke and ash. Rhaegar remained in the darkness and breathed in a mouthful of ash and smoke. Coughing, he rubbed at his eyes until they were cleared and observed his situation. Gone was the throne room in the Red Keep, swept away by memory and dream._

_Rhaegar glanced around at his new surroundings, standing up from his seat. It was the throne room on Dragonstone. The black rock crawled out of the floor, forming the base for the walls and windows above him. The smell of sulfur filled his senses as small wafts of ash and smoke flew in through the windows. The distant summit of Dragonmont glowed red and bright as lava flowed gently down from its crater._

_There was a storm outside. Fierce and untamed. Lightning flashed across the water around the island as wind whistled around the island. There was no rain, only wind and thunder. Distantly, Rhaegar could peer into the bay and see the ships toss and turn on the waves._

_“You promised you would remain you.”_

_His mother, Rhaella._

_Her voice filled him with sorrow, it had been so long since he had last heard it. She was a pristine picture of the moment when he had last seen her. Beautiful with silver hair and purple eyes that glistened when she smiled at him. She was otherworldly, like a spirit that had come to both bless and haunt him._

_There were a few cracks in his perfect picture of her. Rhaella was thin, unnaturally so, with hollow cheeks and thin hair. Her eyes were sunk deep into her skull, tired and defeated. There was just a hint of a bruise that was almost hid by the neck of her dress and at the hem of her sleeve; remnants of his father's ‘affection.’_

_There was something new that interrupted Rhaegar's memory of his mother._

_The one who had killed her suckled at her breast._

_His sister, Daenerys. The Stormborn._

_Rhaella smiled down at her only daughter, but her gentle smile disappeared when she looked back up at her oldest son._

_“You promised me you would not become your father.”_

_Righteous indignation rose up in him at her words. Her words were unjustified. He was a far better king than his father._

_“As a prince, I was already greater ruler than Aerys!” he defended. He would not call Aerys ‘father’ here, in this vision of his mother. “Westeros prospers under my rule like never before!”_

_Rhaella nodded in initial agreement, but then she slowly shook her head in despair. “Which creates the other? Does a great king make a good man? Or does a good man make a great king?”_

_Rhaegar pondered Rhaella's riddle. He thought back to the histories he had read about his family. Aegon the Conqueror had brought peace to a warring continent through fire and blood. His son by Visenya, Maegor, had raised the Red Keep, the Dragonpit, and had ended the Faith Militant; but he had been cruel and tyrannical. Jaehaerys the Concilator solidified Targaryen rule and brought peace to the realm through the rule of law and wisdom. Daeron, the Young Dragon, had conquered Dorne through sheer brilliance and without the aid of a dragon. Bealor the Blessed had been pious and raised the Great Sept in King's Landing, but he had put the future of his house in question without providing a direct heir to the Iron Throne. Aegon the Unworthy had ruled with excess and iron, sowing the seeds that would grow into the Blackfyre Rebellions that would haunt House Targaryen for generations. His own father had been able to hold the Seven Kingdoms together even while the cloud of madness hung over him in the early years of his reign._

_All of them had been kings that had been described as either good, great, or even both. Which did Rhaegar want to be?_

_“A great king can be a good man, but a good man alone cannot make a great king,” Rhaegar answered._

_Rhaella smiled sadly at her son. “If that is your desire, than it shall be so for your reign.” She rocked Daenerys in her arms, cooing at the babe at her breast. He had rarely seen her so happy, but then he remembered that Daenerys had been born after Aerys's death._

_“What was your father's desire?”_

_Rhaegar, paused, briefly taken aback. His father's obsessions and paranoia were known to no one better but his abused wife and sister. He was reluctant to put his thoughts into words. “Fire excited him.”_

_“Yes, but he desired to be a dragon.”_

_Rhaegar was reminded of the goblet filled with wildfire. He remembered again the tale of Aerion Brightflame, who had drank a cup of wildfire to prove he was a dragon. It had served as his inspiration._

_He pushed away the unpleasant memory and focused on the one parent he had loved. “That is not my desire. I want peace and prosperity.”_

_Rhaella's face hardened, as if turned to stone. “Peace and prosperity through prophecy? The Prince That Was Promised has long been a portent that has haunted my life. Why have you let it dominate yours?”_

_“A new age,” Rhaegar said breathlessly. He had studied the prophecy since he had been a boy and had dedicated his life to seeing its fulfillment. The dusty scrolls he had pored over had whispered of a golden age that would be unparalleled to all the millennia that had come before it. The Age of Heroes and its accomplishments would be dwarfed by what was to come. He was determined that his family would be at the forefront of that glorious renaissance. The events that would unfold would he heralded by the Prince That Was Promised. “The Targaryens will lead the world into the future, and it will be a new Valyria!”_

_“Oh my son,” Rhaella mourned. Tears rolled down her face as she gazed at him. Rhaegar glanced away, shame filling him though he did not regret his actions. He could not bear to be the source of her pain. “I am so sorry, I have failed you. You are your father's son.”_

_That was too much for Rhaegar, but even as he stepped forward to comfort his mother she had disappeared. “No Mother! I am not father!! I'm not! Mother come back!” He looked around frantically but he was alone in Dragonstone's hall._

_The stone started to melt away as if the fortress were a cloud. Rhaegar breathed in the fog, but coughed out smoke. He squinted his eyes shut from the sting of the smoke, and he could smell wood burning. He opened his eyes and the bright light of daylight invaded them. He stumbled a few steps forward, waving a hand in front of him in an attempt to clear away the smoke from his face. Rhaegar paused though when his foot made a wet squelch into the ground. He lifted his foot up, but the ground was not soaked with water, but with blood._

_A child was crying._

_Rhaegar knew better than to turn around, as he had seen this before in his dreams. This haunting was not new. But to refuse to turn and revisit this personal hell was to admit shame and defeat. This was the moment when his great triumph turned to ash. Baratheon's revenge for taking Lyanna from him._

_No. He refused. He defied. Defeat would not claim him this night, nor any night after._

_He turned around, and Summerhall, the castle of his birth, lay in black and burnt ruins around him. A royal carriage was turned over on its side and bodies bearing the red and black of House Targaryen laid around it, soaking the ground with their red blood._

_Beasts wearing the skins of men and adorned with the black Baratheon stag on their armor walked among the bodies, driving spears and swords into the wounded survivors, their pleas for mercy falling on deaf ears. A Prince of Dorne wearing a white cloak leaned against the carriage, his armor ruined and his golden chestplate crushed from a hammer's blow. Lewyn Martell, a loyal knight, brought low protecting his family. His one failure paid for with his one life._

_Rhaegar trusted his knights to guard his Promised Prince and take him and his mother safely to Dorne, but they failed him. He should have seen to their safety personally instead of leading the army to the Trident to put down his rebellious lords. The Prince That Was Promised and the dream of dragons flying again had been far more important than putting down a rebellious wolf and his pack. The memory of the mangled bodies of his wife and child would haunt him for all eternity._

_“You promised me...”_

_Rhaegar stood silently before his first wife. Elia Martell was a fragile beauty. She had the beauty of Dorne but none of its strength. None of its resilience. She had brought only two children into the world when he had needed three._

_Elia kneeled in the dirt; her Dornish dress was torn, her golden crown twisted, and its gems scattered around her. Tears carved trails down her face as she pleaded before him. She reached out with a hand to grasp his tunic. Her grip was strong for one he had considered weak for so long._

_She accused him._

_“You promised me you would protect us.”_

_His child was crying. His Aegon. His Promised Prince._

_A demon walked toward them with Aegon in his grip. He was a mountain of a man with a steel hammer in his grip and antlers on his helm. The man who had wanted to topple a dynasty of dragons. The man Rhaegar had let slip through his fingers due to his father's mad plots. The man who's would be wife Rhaegar had taken and made to carry his child._

_Robert Baratheon._

_The demon tightened his grip and the child's crying stopped._

_Elia's cries echoed across the ruins. Her eyes, the eyes of their son, stared up at him in desperation._

_“You promised me!” she screamed. “A promise you broke twice!” Elia's voice bordered on grief and hatred. Her hands flew up like claws and gripped his tunic in an iron grip. “Do not break it a third time!”_

_The demon's hammer whistled through the air and Elia accused no more._

_Rhaegar walked away from Elia's broken body. She was right, he had promised her that she and her children would be safe in Dorne. Aegon was dead, Elia was dead, but Rhaenys had survived that dreadful day._

_“Father?”_

_He stared at his daughter with tired eyes. His dream remembered Rhaenys as the small girl she had been during those dark days; dark skin, dark hair, but bright eyes. Purple eyes. Her black cat, the one she named Balerion, was held tightly in her arms._

_“Father where are you? Where is Mother? Where is my brother?”_

_Rhaegar reached out with his hand, but it went through her as if he were naught but air. She searched with the eyes of a child but they did not find him._

_“Father please, don't leave me alone!”_

_Rhaegar crouched down and tried to hold her, but his arms could not find her as she disappeared from view. He cried out, desperate. Rhaegar needed her, she was a piece of his prophecy._

_Darkness surrounded him for a moment, but when the light broke through he was not comforted. The light was not the bright warmth of the sun, but the cold silver of the moon. His surroundings were rock and sand. A tower of stone stood in judgement above him, a tower he had foolishly named joy._

_“You promised me love.”_

_Her voice was clear but it cut like ice._

_Rhaegar faced her, unafraid and without regret. He did what he had for the sake of his prophecy. For House Targaryen. For Westeros. For the song of ice and fire._

_Lyanna Stark was small, but her presence was large. Her beauty was wild and untamed like the frozen lands beyond the Wall. Her gray eyes, so much like the Stark direwolf, were angry and unforgiving as they glared at him. Lyanna's brown hair fell across her body like a veil, as if to hide her grief and humiliation. She was dressed in torn rags. All the dresses he had tried to gift her she had refused. Her breasts, swollen with milk, rose and fell with her every angry breath while her hands gripped her pregnant belly with all the protectiveness of a mother wolf._

_“I did,” he admitted. “I wish you had promised me the same.”_

_Her laugh was like a winter storm, cold and uncaring. “Never,” she promised. Lyanna reached down to her belly, where her bastard son grew. She caressed it with a gentleness that she had never shared with Rhaegar himself. “I only promise vengeance. Justice. Jon will be my avenger.”_

_Rhaegar scowled at the sound of the bastard's name. It was the name of an ancient Stark King of Winter who had rallied the North and defeated an army who had invaded their homeland. “It should have been Visenya. You were supposed to birth Visenya! The dragon must have three heads!” he growled._

_“Perhaps it does, but my path is my own,” Lyanna replied. A defiant smile spread across her lips. “You may have taken me, but Jon is my son, and mine alone.”_

_“Your bastard,” Rhaegar agreed. He hadn't needed a boy, he had needed a princess. A Visenya to complete his triad with Aegon and Rhaenys. He would not claim the boy as his; Lyanna was welcome to claim her pup. He would have nothing to do with it._

_“My son,” Lyanna said sweetly. “My wolf of winter. The Stark in Winterfell. He will avenge us.”_

_An unnatural rage filled Rhaegar, making his words poison. “He will be nothing of nowhere, a drop of snow in the North. You will be the last Stark.”_

_Lyanna contorted in pain, her voice dripping with grief. “You killed my family; Father, Brandon, Ned, and Ben … sacrificed to your arrogance.” She rubbed her belly protectively, as if to remind her that the bastard was still there. “You made me carry your child,” Lyanna growled, but then she smiled. “But I took your victory. My son will not be a puppet in your prophecy.”_

_Fire filled his veins and Rhaegar stepped forward, a sword appearing in his hand. Blood trickled down the steel blade. Ned Stark's blood, he remembered, fresh from the Battle of the Trident. “The wolves kneel to the dragon. Don't forget that, woman. I gave you a bastard, not a crown. You were a mistake, not a miracle.”_

_Lyanna's smile was filled with amusement, as if she were the warrior and he the woman. “Winter is coming, Rhaegar Targaryen. The wolves come with it.”_

_Rhaegar felt his lips curl back in a snarl, but before he said anything more his surroundings changed once more. Snow replaced sand and the clear sky was filled with grey clouds. The air's warmth was sucked away, replaced by a cold that settled onto his body like chains. A blizzard blurred his vision as it whipped around him in a furious flurry. Wind howled around him as he tried to peer through the winter storm. He stepped forward and found ice barring his path, forming a barrier in front of him._

_He was on top of the Wall._

_The Wall was taller than Rhaegar knew it to be, towering above Castle Black below him with its crenelations in the clouds._

_Rhaegar could see all of Westeros._

_It stretched out before him like a map, not unlike the table that Aegon the Conqueror had made at Dragonstone at the onset of his conquest. He could see all the great castles of the continent; Winterfell, Riverrun, the Eyrie, Harrenhall, Pyke, the Red Keep, Casterly Rock, Highgarden, Storm's End, Sunspear, and so many, many more._

_All of it was his._

_He turned around, and Rhaegar saw the lands beyond the wall. Territories and tribes that had remained outside Targaryen rule for centuries through negligence, believing that nothing of worth existed beyond the Wall._

_Fools, all of them._

_Snow crunched underfoot as someone approached him from behind. Rhaegar turned … and stared into a pair of glacier blue eyes._

_Ice plunged into his heart and Rhaegar fell backward over the Wall and into the lands beyond._

_All he could hear was a woman's laughter._

Rhaegar woke up screaming.


	2. Chapter 1:  The Knight Star

Arthur awoke to the sound or someone rapping quickly on his door. He reached across the bed and gripped the pommel of _Dawn_ as he sprang up, trying to stifle the yawn that wanted to sneak out of his mouth. It was unbecoming of one of the Kingsguard to show any sign of weariness, and Arthur had to make sure he set an example to his fellow knights as the Lord Commander. He was one of the preeminent knights of the realm, and he had to always remain vigilant so that he could fulfill his duty to his lord and friend, King Rhaegar.

He pulled open the stout door to reveal Ser Oswell Whent, one of the senior knights of the Kingsguard. Oswell’s appearance had become more grizzled since he and Arthur had fought side by side with Rhaegar at the Trident, adding several streaks of grey through his once pitch black hair. Despite his age, he was still as skilled a knight as any Kingsguard, better even than most of the others Arthur would wager.

Seeing him here, now, at this time of night did not bode well. Oswell had been charged by Arthur this night with the protection of the royal wing of Maegor's holdfast where the king, queen, and their young princess slept.

"What has happened?" Arthur inquired. He glanced out the narrow window and saw the position of the full moon outside; it was the hour of the wolf. 

"It's the king," Oswell whispered. "He's in the armory. Ser Barristan is with him and I woke Ser Jaime to watch the royal wing." Oswell paused, his eyes darting around the corridor for unwanted ears. "He's in the trophy room, Arthur, staring at the weapon racks. It is worse than before, he's barely talked to anyone."

Arthur nodded, suppressing a grimace, and started the walk towards the armory with a hurried pace. Oswell remained just a step behind him, matching him step for step.

"What of the queen?"

Oswell sighed and spoke reluctantly. "She is awake, but has remained in her bedroom."

"Was she with the king?"

Oswell shook his head. "No, but she heard the king's scream from her room. She wanted to follow the king, but he barked at her to stay there. She was not happy to be refused. I sent Ser Jaime to placate her."

Arthur glanced back at Oswell with surprise. The king's restless sleep had become an infrequent occurrence since his ascension to the Iron Throne, but never before had the king cried out from a night terror. "Who else knows the king is awake?"

"Several guards in the royal wing and in the holdfast," Oswell replied. "Of the Kingsguard, besides the two of us, only Ser Barristan and Ser Jaime are aware."

"The guards," Arthur asked sharply. "Were any of them Baelish's rats?"

"A few," Oswell admitted. "I tried to mislead them, but it was hard to do so with the king storming through the keep."

Arthur's grip on _Dawn_ tightened with frustration. "So either our spymaster knows now or will know as soon as he awakens from the bed of whatever whore he slept with tonight."

"It was inevitable, Arthur," Oswell conceded. "The king's been having these night terrors more and more as the years have passed."

"Yes," Arthur admitted. "But before tonight he never left his room. We kept it quiet. The king does not need another reason to be compared to his father. Remember Lord Caron during the feast at Storm's End last year?"

Oswell nodded. "I did not expect Lord Stannis to step in like that. I thought one of us would have to fight as the king's champion to defend his honor with the way Caron gossiped. The king had been furious."

"He was mad that the prince had overheard Caron's snide comments and had told the queen," Arthur told him. "I was with him that night. He had gone to the godswood for some unworldly reason after failing to find sleep. One of Caron's servants had seen us." Arthur hesitated in his step, unsure but for a moment. "You know the king does not want to be associated with anything... _northern."_

"I know all too clearly," Oswell affirmed. "He almost had me whipped for suggesting he include Winterfell on the royal family's tour of the Seven Kingdoms to strengthen relations with the other northern lords if not the last Stark herself."

Though Arthur agreed with Oswell, and was sympathetic, he felt the need to defend his king and friend. "He does not want to be associated with Lady Stark in any manner. Despite even Lady Stark admitting that she ran off to escape her upcoming marriage to Robert Baratheon before the rebellion began, a few lords still blame the king for the war. It does not help that the _entire continent,_ and probably even _Essos,_ knows that Lady Stark _hates_ the king with every bone in her body. She would not suffer the king or the royal family to step into her hall except under extreme threat of violence."

Oswell remained silent for a moment. Then he spoke in a hushed whisper that barely even Arthur could hear. "Arthur, the king was...muttering things. He spoke...as if to reassure himself. I do not think he even remembered I was there. He was of a single mind, rushing to the armory as if his life depended upon it."

Arthur was unnerved by this and banished the memories of King Aerys's mutterings and madness; but with Rhaegar's face instead of the Mad King's. It was only in the privacy of his own mind that he called Aerys the Mad King, as Rhaegar refused to hear it in his presence. Aerys had rightfully earned the title. Arthur had been there, as a Kingsguard, when Aerys had his pyromancers set innocents aflame before the Iron Throne. It had filled him with shame to serve, let along _protect,_ such a king. 

There had been times when temptation had almost seized Arthur to slit the Mad King's throat as he slept. Arthur had to use his considerable self-control to stay his hand though, reminding himself of the consequences of such a betrayal. If it had been just his own life on the headsman's block, Arthur might have done it, but he would not dare to risk the life of his father and sister. It had been a relief to have discovered that the Mad King's heir, Prince Rhaegar, did not share the madness of his father. When Rhaegar had confided in Arthur his plans to depose Aerys, he had known who it was he truly wanted to serve as a knight of the realm.

There was that thought though, that wriggled in the deep corners of Arthur's mind, that Aerys had not become mad until later in his life.

"What things?'" Arthur asked cautiously. He was loathe to discuss this in the hallways instead of the privacy of his chambers, but he needed to know what was plaguing his king.

Oswell's voice lowered even more. "I could barely hear him Arthur, but I definitely heard him mention the North and Lady Stark, along with something about a sword and a ring. He also talked about...a wall?"

"Perhaps _the_ Wall? It is in the North."

Oswell nodded, agreeing with him. Then his faced turned somber. "There was one thing, above everything else, that he kept repeating. He said it enough that I pieced it together." He took a deep breath. " _The Dragon must have three heads."_

Arthur sighed and looked away. "That is not new. Like a maester's chain, our king is burdened by the prophecies of House Targaryen."

Oswell did not look surprised. "I know little about prophecy, but he would mention it time and again when he was still the crown prince. He was quite insistent to Queen Elia about it after...after Aegon was born. That is how I remember it."

"He thought it meant three children," Arthur reminded Oswell. Perhaps revisiting this old subject would reveal new light upon their king’s distress. "He told me so, after he learned Queen Elia could not have any more children after birthing Prince Aegon. He was falling into despair, wondering where he would find the Visenya to complete the trio." Arthur's voice took a dark turn as remembered the rage he had felt at the end of the war. "Then Robert Baratheon killed Queen Elia and Prince Aegon, and he only had Rhaenys left." Arthur himself thought it rather cold to value your children by what role they could fulfill, but he kept those thoughts to himself. What did he know of being a father? Rhaegar had it worse, having to be a father and a king. Arthur wondered sometimes which duty Rhaegar favored more; his duty to the Seven Kingdoms or his duty as a father.

Oswell shook his head roughly. "That should not matter now! He has his three children, more even!" He raised up a hand and started counting them off, one by one on his fingers. "Rhaenys, Daeron, Aenys, and Alyssane! By the gods, even Daenerys is more of a daughter to the king than a sister! She's been practically raised here with the king’s children after Queen Rhaella died! Viserys, while not like his sister, is still a dutiful brother! House Targaryen has not been this large since the disaster at Summerhall!" Oswell broke off, breathing hard in frustration. "Why then does the king still sleep fitfully over these things!"

"Quiet down!" Arthur hissed, holding up a hand to caution Oswell. They were almost to the armory, and he did not want Rhaegar to overhear their conversation. Innocent as it was, the king would rather not have them discussing their own interpretations of his family's prophecy. To him, only a member of House Targaryen could hope to interpret the prophecy with any degree of accuracy. "To the king, the prophecy has been left unfulfilled. He thinks that the fulfillment of the prophecy will return dragons to the world, and House Targaryen to unsurpassed supremacy once more."

Oswell looked away. Of his face that Arthur could see in the dim torch light, it was riddled with an uncomfortable doubt. Oswell, Arthur knew, was a man of logic. If he had not been so skilled with a sword, Arthur was sure that Oswell would have made a fine maester. While he did not deny the existence of dragons in the past, Oswell, like many of the maesters in Oldtown, were uncomfortable with the subject of magic and dragons in the present world. The maesters were probably the happiest that magic's strength had waned into almost nonexistence.

"He may be waiting for a long time," Oswell said firmly. "Even the dragons that existed only a century and a half ago were small, sickly creatures. What dragon eggs are known to exist are nothing but pretty rocks, turned to stone by time. Tell me, Lord Commander, how long will the king wait while we watch over him?"

Arthur knew what Oswell was really asking. They may be knights, but their post was in the Red Keep. It was impossible to not live here for so long a time and not learn to say one thing and mean another. Arthur, when he had just joined the Kingsguard, had thought he would remain above such skullduggery. As time passed however, Arthur realized that learning how to speak, and more importantly, understand the double-speak language of the court was a matter of survival. After running the knight's words through his head, Arthur knew what Oswell was asking how long they would have to watch their king chase after impossible dreams.

They stopped before the doors to the armory. Arthur did not see Barristan standing guard at the door, so he must be further in, probably at the section where the Targaryen's kept their personal armor, weapons, and the occasional trophy. Arthur turned to give Oswell a reply before they ventured further in. As he turned, he caught a brief glimpse of red garment reflecting the yellow torchlight. Oswell saw his hesitation and turned, starting a little at the sight of a cloaked figure standing silently in the shadows. Arthur's hand swept down to _Dawn's_ pommel and he started to pull his sword from its sheath when the person spoke in calm, soothing tones.

"Stay your hand, Lord Commander. I have come to comfort our king, not kill him." Red eyes turned to appraise Oswell. "To answer your question, good knight, the king shall only have to wait a little longer. The Lord of Light does not break his promises."

It was the red-witch, Melisandre of Ashaii.

She was tall, taller than almost any other woman and with a supple womanly figure cut as if from a statue of The Mother herself, though Arthur was sure the priestess of Rho'llor would not appreciate the comparison. Her hair, eyes, and lips were as red as the ruby attached to the choker around her neck and were put in stark contrast to her pale, almost snow like skin. Arthur did not think he had ever seen the witch dressed in anything else besides her red robes and black cloak. Her scarlet eyes seemed unusually bright in the darkness, with an unnatural intensity as she surveyed them. She did not seem the least bit disturbed by confronting two of the most skilled knights on the continent alone, unarmed, in the dead of night.

"What are you doing here?" Oswell barked. Arthur noticed that his fellow knight remained just as guarded as Arthur himself was, if not more so. Oswell had never been able to completely keep his disdain for the witch hidden.

Melisandre's eyes shifted to appraise Oswell, and her lips curled into a small smile of amusement. "I was watching the flames when the Lord of Light granted me sight into our king's troubles this night, and where the king would go so that I may offer him comfort and counsel."

Arthur knew he must choose his words carefully. Ever since Rhaegar had welcomed the red woman and her religion into the Seven Kingdoms, Melisandre had quickly adapted to the court's ways. She had a silver tongue, sharpened to a fine point that could only be gained through extensive experience. Though she did not hold land or title, she represented the growing number of believers who followed the Lord of Light. While they were not as wealthy, numerous, or as influential as the Faith of the Seven the converts who followed Melisandre were unmatched in their fervor for their god. They worked hard and asked for little in return, something the small folk appreciated. The septs and septas of the Faith of the Seven tended to seek offerings to the Seven in return for their services.

While House Targaryen's stance on religion had remain unchanged since Aegon's promise of tolerance for all the beliefs of his subjects, Melisandre had won favor above the others for her demonstrations of magic, small as they were. Arthur had only seen a few examples of her magic, and so far, he remained unimpressed. She had kept a fire going without fuel and had caused a wet pile of logs to erupt into flames. While he was not impressed, Arthur would remain wary however, as he did not want to underestimate someone who has proven to be somewhat proficient with magic. Rhaegar had once asked her to prove if she had as great an aptitude for magic as she claimed, but Melisadnre had refused, stating that only once the king's heart remained faithful to only the Lord of the Light would her services to him expand beyond the simple and entertaining.

Rhaegar, unwilling to violate the neutrality he maintained with the Faith of the Seven and the more mysterious tree worshipers in the North, let the issue lie. Arthur suspected that if his king had any faith, it was more in the magic of Valyria that his ancestors had built an empire with.

The traditionally rock solid neutrality of House Targaryen when it came to matters of faith had been cast into a shadow of doubt in recent years. Rhaegar’s eldest surviving son and heir, Prince Daeron, however, did not share his father's leanings and had found Melisandre and her following more aligned with House Targaryen than the Faith of the Seven, much to the alarm of the septs and septas who came to court; and where Daeron went, his younger brother Prince Aenys, loyal to the future king, followed soon after.

"Lady Melisandre,” Arthur said respectfully, as he would for any member of his king's court. "The king has not expressed a desire for your counsel or comfort this night."

"But you would not know that yet, sir knight," Melisandre said sharply. "You have not yet spoken to him, and you yourself might find my words soothing once you see the state of your king for yourself."

Arthur regarded her shrewdly, looking for a sign or tell that might reveal a liar putting on an act. Arthur had met many charlatans and had seen many performances made to gain the king's favor and he prided himself on seeing through their facade. To this date though, Melisandre had never seemed insincere to him.

And that only made her more dangerous.

He did not respond to her, instead turning to Oswell as he did not want to question her and receive cryptic answers again. "Stay here and make sure we are not disturbed." He glanced at Melisandre, but decided he could not do anything about her presence without having Oswell escort her and she was unlikely to cause the king any further distress. He leaned in close and spoke in a lower tone, hoping the priestess could not hear him. "If anyone asks, tell them that the king is choosing a gift from the royal armory to present to Prince Daeron when he returns from Volantis."

Oswell nodded obediently, sliding into place beside the door. 

"Have no fear that I would betray your tale, for I too desire to protect our king." Melisandre told him smoothly as he stepped through the door. "Tell King Rhaegar that I merely await his word to offer advice on how to proceed this night."

Arthur did not bother giving her a reply, though she probably knew that he would at least tell Rhaegar that she was aware of his night terrors. 

He stepped through the door fully and into the room beyond. The armory of the Red Keep was expansive, with spears, swords, and shiields lining the walls on racks and shelves. There were shelves of chain mail and helmets for archers while their bows piled up in barrels, waiting to be strung. Thousands of arrows in quivers hung on the wall. On armor stands were fine steel plates that any knight would desire to have. This armory was the largest in the Red Keep, and was usually only used in times of war. There were smaller armories scattered around the keep to provided the day to day needs of the Gold Cloaks and the castle guards. Even the Kingsguard had a specialized armory below their tower.

What made this armory special was the iron door at the end of the hall with numerous steel bars that slid into slots in the stone, making the door near impervious to brute entry. There was a large iron padlock in the center of the door, but Arthur knew that was only half of what was needed to open the door. 

The door was a relic of Valyria, and although the iron was not the famed Valyrian steel, it was still enchanted. He could tell the runes were Valyrian, with their arching curves and harsh lines. He knew the runes by sight now by sheer exposure to the royal family and the Red Keep itself. To open this particular door, a person must have both the key _and_ the blood of Valyria. Arthur, when he found himself in a thoughtful mood, considered if the door had been made by whatever knowledge Aegon and his sisters knew of Valyrian magic or if the door had been carried all the way across the sea from Valyria itself.

The door was ajar, and Arthur was about to be given his first glimpse of the trophy trove of House Targaryen.

Ser Barristan Selmy, the oldest and one of the most celebrated kingsguard stood as as a silent sentinel next to the opened door. He tossed his head over his shoulder in reference to their king's location but remained quiet. He, like Arthur, knew that there would be time to talk later.

When small folk and highborn considered the trophies of House Targaryen, most minds went to the Iron Throne that was made from the swords of House Targaryen's conquered foes. Few considered the treasures, weapons, and armor that House Targaryen wanted to use for themselves and not to merely sit upon.

Arthur once asked Rhaegar, when they were younger and more foolhardy, what was in the royal armory. Rhaegar had confided in him that he did not know himself, as his father did not believe Rhaegar was worthy to gaze upon the treasures of their predecessors. His friend had said that he imagined that the greatest horde of Valyrian steel was hidden behind this door; armor plates, swords, spears, shields, and helms with other trinkets and curiosities from his ancestors attempt to replicate the advancements of Old Valyria. 

Rhaegar, from a scrap of paper he had found in the archives of the Red Keep, thought that a weapon made to use wildfire was stored there; a failed experiment from Maegar’s reign that was meant to spit wildfire at soldiers like a dragon. Supposedly, it was deemed a failure because the heat grew too intense for any man but a Targaryen to hold and live. 

Along with exotic experiments from different times in the Taryaryen dynasty, the swords of famed warriors and loyal knights were said to be kept here to remember and honor their service to the rulers of Westeros. These revered blades rested beside the stolen artifacts of rebellious lords.

The truth was sadly anticlimactic.

Dust and cobwebs covered most of the room, and Arthur could see the remains of ornate boxes that were probably meant to hold treasured trophies rotting in hazardous heaps scattered about. There were a few stands with armor on them, but the armor was not the strong steel of Valyria and was covered with a layer of rust. Arthur doubted that the plate presented here could stop a kitchen knife, let alone a knight's sword. The whole chamber felt more akin to a tomb than a trophy trove.

Towards the end of the chamber, where his king stood rigidly, Arthur could finally see a few remnants of the Targaryen treasure, with a shelf containing a few ornate daggers. Those, Arthur could see, were Valyrian steel. Their handles were long and curved and it took Arthur a moment to realize that the handles were not carved wood, but dragon teeth. There were a few spear heads of forged Valyrian steel. He let out a small smile in realization. Perhaps Arthur had finally discovered the origin of Princess Rhaenys's spear?

King Rhaegar was dressed in naught but a cloak and his night clothes. His silver hair, which was usually kept smooth and immaculate, looked like a silver smith had taken a bird's nest and dipped it in silver. He was still, and did not react to the sound of Arthur's footsteps as he drew closer, staring unwavering at the weapon's rack. Arthur could not see what had captivated his king, but that was not his main concern at the moment.

"Your grace?" Arthur ventured softly, not wanting to startle Rhaegar out of his trance. There had been a time when Rhaegar had given Arthur a black eye after startling him so. "Your grace…it is I, Ser Arthur."

Arthur might as well have announced his presence to the stone wall for all the response that his king gave at his greeting.

Arthur hesitated and glanced back, making sure that they were alone. He trusted Barristan, but he knew that the old knight would not look kindly on a Kingsguard breaking protocol with the king. Arthur took a gamble and reached out to his friend.

"Rhaegar," he whispered. His hand grasped his friend's shoulder and he gave it a small shake. "It's me, Arthur. You need to wake up."

Rhaegar gasped and his body came alive again as if his heart had restarted. The king turned around and blinked a few times and Arthur could see how exhausted Rhaegar was by the deep shadows that hung beneath his purple eyes.

Rhaegar focused on Arthur and nodded, recognizing him. He turned back to the rack and spoke in a insistent whisper. "Arthur. Good...good. Here, take this cursed thing and find a smith. Immediately. Melt it down. I never want to see this cursed thing again.”

Arthur finally focused on the rack and his eyes widened in surprise.

It was _Ice,_ the greatsword of House Stark. It hung on the weapon rack reluctantly, the rotting pegs barely holding it up. Arthur could see that the years had not touched it in slightest since he had last seen it at the Battle of the Trident after Rhaegar had taken it from the corpse of Ned Stark. The steel appeared wavy, like banks of snow were mirrored in its shine; a characteristic it shared with any sword of Valyrian make. The pommel was simple, without a single jeweled adornment, though there were a few runes carved into the cross-guard that Arthur assumed was the ancient script of the First Men, as it was clearly different from the runes carved into the enchanted door behind him.

Usually, Arthur did not hesitate or second guess his liege's commands, however, he remembered vividly the short but stoic figure of Lyanna Stark, dressed in blood soaked armor while she stood beneath the destroyed gates of Moat Caillin as she argued fiercely with Rhaegar. The moment stood out to him and he could still recall the amazement he felt when he realized that the woman had rallied a small number of desperate yet determined northmen into storming and then actually _capturing_ Moat Caillin. The ruins of that castle had never before that day been taken by any army from the south.

Lyanna Stark did it in a single _night._

It still baffles him that she succeeded.

Arthur had never crossed swords himself with the last Stark, but he had heard of her skill with a sword. He had even heard rumors that Lyanna Stark was even deadlier on horseback. The northern lords who dared to visit King’s Landing compared her to a centaur. 

Recalling the fierce shouting match between the last Stark and his king at Moat Caillin’s gate, Arthur knew that shortly after that meeting, she had ridden into the heart of the North and drove the Ironborn out of Winterfell with a vengeance; leaving a trail of bloody bodies in her wake. 

She had been determined, Arthur knew, to free the North and slake her bloodlust on the Ironborn after news spread throughout Westeros that Euron Greyjoy had killed her last surviving brother, Benjen Stark. The boy had been left behind by Ned Stark to keep watch over the North as the Stark in Winterfell while he marched south of the Neck with Jon Arryn. Though Euron Greyjoy escaped, the Ironborn he had left behind in Winterfell had not been so lucky. Lyanna had taken the surviving Ironborn to the Wolf’s Wood and had them chained to the trees. The wolves living therein had feasted well that night.

Arthur admired her for her feats in battle and her determination to rule the North as a Lord Paramount when no woman had ever done so before with the exception of Dorne. Truly, she was remarkable and in many ways she reminded Arthur of his own sister, Ashara.

"Your grace,” Arthur said hesitantly, returning to formality for the reminder he was about to deliver to his king. "You promised Lady Stark that you would return her family's sword to her son-"

" _No,"_ Rhaegar said firmly. "This is the sword of House Stark, and she is the last of that house." He raised a hand above his heart and gripped his tunic fiercely. "It will _never_ be wielded against me again."

Arthur knew that he should have kept quiet and obeyed, but Rhaegar had always listened to his words of advice, even when those words went against a course of action his king favored. It was a trait Arthur had admired in Rhaegar; the ability to receive criticism for the sake of devising the best solution.

"Lady Stark is loyal," Arthur told him. "Yes, I know she despises you, but she has never rebelled against House Targaryen; unlike her three brothers who are all dead now. Every command you have issued to her she has obeyed, reluctantly yes, but still she has done as any warden should when a king gave them a command,” Arthur added insistently. “She has held the North in your name for almost twenty years against lords who marched with Ned Stark to the Trident _and_ those who see her as a traitor for bowing to the Iron Throne after so many of her fellow northmen died fighting you. She has done all this _despite_ being blamed for causing the rebellion in the first place by running away from her betrothal to Robert Baratheon and off to only gods know where and then returning with a bastard at her breast." 

Arthur paused, trying to convey to the king the sincerity of his words. Rhaegar did not look at him. He remained standing still, staring at _Ice_ and absolutely mesmerized _._ Arthur was unsure if his words were reaching his king in this trance he held himself in, but he was determined to push on to save the honor of his king. He knew Rhaegar. Arthur had watched him tear himself to pieces of the decision to overthrow his own father. Any good son would have hesitated before contemplating such action. What Rhaegar had done, Arthur knew, had been for the good of all the people living in the Seven Kingdoms, but he also knew that his actions haunted the king night after night.

"Do not do this your grace,” Arthur pleaded insistently. “It is dishonorable to go back on your word after she has kept faith for so long. I remember what you promised Lady Stark when we arrived at Moat Caillin, when we discovered that she had recaptured it with the northmen who had survived the Trident. I was there. I saw the impossible with my own two eyes. She had just learned from the northerners the Ironborn had kept captive in the dungeons that Euron Greyjoy had killed her _last_ brother...and had _burned_ Winterfell to the ground. Lady Stark told you that she would retake the North and drive out the Ironborn marauders. Do you remember what you promised in return if she succeeded?"

Though Arthur stood behind Rhaegar, he could still see the king's face draw up in a scowl in the reflection of _Ice's_ blade. "I know what I promised," he growled. "Do not remind me again of what that woman has done for me. It is only what is owed the Iron Throne in the first place. Should I reward those that give me that which due to me as king?" Rhaegar let the silence hang between them, and his tone turned dark. "I did not believe she would succeed. In fact, I had hoped she would _die_ in the attempt. Her… _and_ her son."

Arthur was struck dumb and he stepped back in surprise, having never considered that Rhaegar had made his promises to Lyanna Stark with the expectation that he would ever have to uphold his word.

“Her son and this sword,” Rhaegar whispered. “I _swore_ to her by the blood of my ancestors that I would return this sword to her son and let him take up the name of Stark when he came of age. In return, she would liberate the North from Euron Greyjoy while I invaded Pike to end Balon’s petty rebellion.”

He shook his head. “Idiotic Ironborn, thinking that I could not muster the forces to put down their rebellion so soon after defeating Robert’s Rebels at the Trident. Balon’s arrogance was his undoing, but when I learned of his invasion of the North, and of Euron Greyjoy’s butchery of Benjen Stark and the sack of Winterfell, I did not see a catastrophic setback. No, I saw an opportunity.”

Arthur stared at his king, astonished upon learning of Rhaegar's true feelings on the matter. He had fought with Rhaegar during the siege of Pike when they had ended the Greyjoy Rebellion. He had followed Thoros of Myr and his blazing sword through the breach in the castle, killing many Ironborn and one of Balon's sons personally. Balon Greyjoy, taking the lordship from his father after he died naturally during Robert's rebellion, had decided that the Ironborn would return to the Old Ways and become their own kingdom once again. 

Acting while the other kingdoms were embroiled in Robert's uprising, he declared himself King of the Iron Islands. When he heard of Ned Stark's defeat at the Trident, he sent his brothers Victarion and Euron to plunder and conquer the North. 

Victarion quickly captured Moat Caillin, trapping the northern survivors from Battle of the Trident in the Neck with Tywin Lannister's army at their back. Only the unexpected arrival of Lyanna Stark had saved them. Rhaegar had been preparing to fight a lengthy war against both the Ironborn in the North and the Greyjoys entrenched in their castles on the Iron Islands, but he had not expected Lyanna Stark to win back the North on her own.

"I disagreed with my father on almost everything,” Rhaegar said factually, astonishing Arthur further by this rare mention of the king's mad predecessor. "But as much as I loathe to say it, he was right about House Stark. Aegon the Conqueror should have never left a line of kings as old and powerful as the Starks live to see another dawn. They should have met the same fate as the Gardeners, the Duranndons, and the Hoares. Of all the Seven Kingdoms, the North has always had the ability to break away if they really wanted to. It would be hard, almost impossible, to conquer it without dragons. The only thing that has kept the North bound to the Iron Throne since the death of the last dragon has been the honor of House Stark." Rhaegar held his right hand in his left, turning a steel ring on his finger. "Lyanna Stark has _no_ honor."

Arthur remained silent, stunned by the depth of Rhaegar’s hatred for the last Stark. It was a well-known fact that Lyanna despised the king, but until now Arthur had not realized that the feeling had been mutual. 

He had to wonder what made the king feel this way, as Arthur could not recall but a few times when the two had been in each other’s company. The first meeting Arthur knew of had been at the tourney Oswell’s uncle Lord Walter Went had hosted at Harrenhall during the Year of the False Spring. Rhaegar had won the jousting tourney and had crowned Elia as the Queen of Love and Beauty. Jaime Lannister had also been inducted into the Kingsguard by the Mad King right afterwards, Arthur recalled. 

A frown crossed his face when he also remembered that Lady Melisandre had first introduced herself to Rheagar there at Harrenhall. The two had met several times in private, discussing things only known to them. Arthur suspected though that they had discussed the prophecies Rhaegar studied, as Melisandre had surprised him by both her display of magic...and more importantly her knowledge of the Prince that was Promised.

During the height of the tourney, Aerys, paranoid as always, had given Rhaegar and a few Kingsguard the task of tracking down a mystery knight, the Knight of the Laughing Tree, after witnessing the mystery knight trounce several knights in the lists. They had tracked the knight down and were surprised to discover that it had been Lyanna Stark in disguise. They spoke briefly to her and went their separate ways. Arthur distinctly remembered that Rhaegar had been intrigued by Lyanna, but he did not speak of her again.

That first meeting had been the last time the two had ever been cordial to one another.

Besides their fiery argument at Moat Caillin, Arthur had only seen the two meet when Lyanna would visit King’s Landing in her official capacity as Warden and Lord Paramount of the North; a rare event that required King Rhaegar’s direct command that she appear before him in the Red Keep to pay homage to the Iron Throne. 

When that happened, only twice so far during Rhaegar’s reign, Lyanna had greeted her king with outright disrespect and barely made any effort to give even the appearance of loyalty to House Targaryen. Once, in view of the whole court, Lyanna bowed mockingly to Rhaegar and glibly asked with fake politeness if the Iron Throne had stuck a sword up his ass, as he looked uncomfortable on his throne. The court had been struck silent by her audacity, but Lyanna stood back up straight as an arrow without a care for what scandal she caused. 

Arthur supposed nothing could have further damaged her reputation, as she was already blamed by many for the entire rebellion happening in the first place because of her unexplained disappearance right before Brandon Stark’s wedding to Catelyn Tully of Riverrun. 

Brandon had accused Rhaegar of kidnapping Lyanna. An accusation Arthur knew to be false, as Rhaegar had been sent by the Mad King on a diplomatic trip to Volantis. Arthur and the other kingsguard had been ordered to remain with Aerys and the other members of the royal family when Rhaegar had left King’s Landing for Volantis by ship. 

When Lyanna reappeared with her bastard son after the Battle of the Trident, everyone had believed it had been her wild ways that had led her to run away without telling anyone. With her return, Lyanna Stark had become the most hated woman in all of Westeros as fast as the raven flew. The only thing that had probably saved Lyanna and her son from exile or worse had been her successful campaign in the North against the Ironborn. That, and the fact that the North only stopped rebelling against the Iron Throne when the last Stark bent the knee.

When King Rhaegar commanded it, Lyanna Stark kneeled before him like everyone else.

At the end of the day, that was the only thing the king had cared about. Rhaegar told his queen, when Cersei commented on Lyanna’s behavior, that he did not care if the foolish woman made a mockery of herself in his court, as it was only what the southern lords expected from a woman ruling what they considered to be the least civilized of the Seven Kingdoms. So long as she obeyed his command, Lyanna could _‘_ _come to court dressed as a wilding and behave like one_ _’_ for all he cared.

“My king,” Arthur whispered, his hand clenching into a fist before he forced himself to relax. Frustration would only work against him. “If not for Lady Stark, then at least keep your promise for the boy’s sake. You and I have heard the same reports from our spymaster when we inquire about Lady Stark’s dealings with the wildlings beyond the Wall.” Rhaegar remained silent, but Arthur could see how the king stiffened with discomfort. Arthur felt like he was perhaps making headway in explaining his case. “Lord Baelish is not one to embellish, and he has always reported that the boy is skilled with a sword and he is well liked among many of the northern lords. He even befriended the Bolton heir after Lady Stark killed his father, Roose Bolton, in the Wolf’s Wood when he rebelled against her. He has fought off wildling raids and successfully discovered how they were sneaking pass the Night Watch. Jon Snow-“

Rhaegar swept out a hand and silenced Arthur, enraged beyond all reason. “ _Never,_ ” he hissed. “ _Never_ say that bastard’s name in front of me.”

Arthur fell silent, now wondering why Rhaegar hated a boy he had never met.

His king remained there a moment and then Rhaegar deflated, his posture bending over in exhaustion. “I am sorry, Arthur. Forgive me, tonight’s dream did little to sooth me.” He let out a frustrated sigh. He lifted his hand and rubbed his temple vigorously, as if attempting to calm the maelstrom in his mind. Rhaegar lowered his hand and straightened back up, the king replacing his friend once more. Steel entered Rhaegar’s eyes as he spoke once more, commanding and confident. 

“Take this sword and find a smith who knows how to handle Valyrian steel. Have him melt it down to the last inch.” Rhaegar’s brow furrowed, undoubtedly knowing Arthur’s reluctance for Rhaegar to dishonor himself this way. He lifted up his hand with the steel ring on it and clasped it on Arthur’s shoulder, his face softening a little. “I will tell Stark herself. She will rage and rant but in the end she will obey. I will not hide behind lies and try to conceal my actions.”

Arthur nodded, submitting to his king’s will. He strode forward and grasped _Ice_ by the handle and wrapped it in old cloth that had been lying on a shelf. He would do as the king commanded, but he would not advertise Rhaegar’s decision.

Still, perhaps something could be salvaged. “What of the boy?” He paid mind to not name the bastard again, lest he incite Rhaegar to blind anger again.

Rhaegar did not answer immediately, and Arthur could see a million and one thoughts rushing through the eyes of the king. Finally, Rhaegar sighed, looked away, and starting exiting through the doorway. “I shall consider it. Half a promise kept is better than breaking a pact completely.”

Rhaegar left him alone among the dusty remnants of the Targaryen treasure. The silence was final, and Arthur gripped the concealed sword firmly in his hands. A moment passed and Arthur followed behind him, making sure to close the enchanted door again, hearing the lock slide back into place as it shut with a loud click. 

When he returned to the corridor, Barristan and Oswell stood at Rhaegar’s side as he faced Melisandre, who waited patiently on a bench with a smile on her red lips.

Rhaegar did not seem enthused by this unexpected appearance by the red witch. “Lady Melisandre, I did not look to see you at this late hour.”

“What better time for a servant of the Lord of Light to assist you, my king?” She answered smoothly. “For the night is dark and full of terrors, of this, I am certain you are aware. The Lord of Light sent me to give you counsel and comfort after revealing to me your dream.”

Rhaegar paused, taking a moment to decipher her cryptic words, and then spoke cautiously, curiosity dripping from his voice. “What did you see?”

Melisandre stood and sauntered closer to the king. The witch stopped mere inches from the king’s face, her scarlet eyes staring into Rhaegar’s violet stare while hand lifted to toy with one of the king’s silver locks. Barristan made to say something, probably to command her to step back, but Rhaegar headed off his loyal knight’s caution with a wave of his hand. 

“I saw your ghosts,” she breathed. “They haunt you with the echoes of promises and pacts that weigh upon you like chains. You are not sure to submit to their weight or fight and break free.”

“I saw your domain,” she whispered. “It stretched from the Arm of Dorne to the Wall in the North. Lords and their castles bowed before you and nothing was beyond your reach. However, beyond the Wall, is both potential and peril. Opportunity and oppression. A realm that magic has not forsaken.”

Melisandre stepped back, her voice rising like a storm. “I saw your enemy.”

Rhaegar stepped forward quickly, gripping his tunic again above his heart, the steel ring on his finger glinting in the moon light. _“_ _Who?_ _”_ he questioned insistently, almost desperately.

Melisandre’s eyes glittered, her smile dipping down into a frown. “The Great Other, with a face white as snow, hair black as night, and eyes as blue as glaciers.”

Rhaegar, to Arthur’s surprise, relaxed and smile of relief flickered across his face. “So, with this warning, I can avoid this doom?”

Melisandre’s smile returned, like a fire that had dimmed but had returned to brilliance. “It is as you say, my king. The Lord of Light grants you knowledge to fulfill his will and resist the enemy of all who live in the lord’s light.”

“What is your interpretation of these shadows that forewarn me?” Rhaegar asked.

Melisandre lifted a hand to her chin and pondered, closing her eyes briefly before opening them again with a thoughtful glint. “You need to remember the promises you kept and broke when you ascended to the Iron Throne. They may reveal what is to come, whether to your benefit or not.” She lifted a hand idly and held it over an unlit candle, snapping her fingers over the dry wick, lighting the candle. “Your realm has healed from the war with the rebellion, and they are ready to follow your every command.” Another snap, and another candle was lit. “And your enemy will come for you from beyond the Wall. The enemy lusts for your blood and will find delight in your fall.” She snapped a final time, and a third candle was lit. She returned her gaze to the king. “That is how I understand your dream, my king.”

Rhaegar twisted to the side to reveal Arthur standing behind him with _Ice_ clutched firmly in his grasp. “What of the sword?”

Melisandre stepped forward until she was but a breath from Arthur. She reached out with a hand and it hovered above the wrapped steel.

“A sword forged in dragonfire that serves the wardens of winter. It is…a paradox, my king.” Her eyes furrowed in thought. Her silence felt thick as the four men awaited her answer. Finally, her voice broke the quiet of the night. “This is not the sword I saw.” Her hand crept forward and she placed her palm upon the cloth, but yanked it back as if burned. “But this sword is no friend to you, my king.”

She stepped back and turned before bowing low to Rhaegar. “I shared with you all the wisdom my lord saw fit to give me, your grace. I hope that his generosity will not be wasted on the unfaithful.” She lifted up her head as Rhaegar nodded slowly. “May I take my leave, my king?”

“You may,” Rhaegar answered. “Give my thanks to your lord, priestess. We shall talk again later, perhaps the light of day may shed more answers.”

Arthur watched Melisandre leave, surprised by the king’s reply. It seemed that Rhaegar’s previous neutrality had shifted drastically in favor of the Lord of Light. What this meant, Arthur could not say. He was neither a priest nor a devout believer. He would do as he had always done, and follow his king’s commands.

“Ser Arthur,” Rhaegar said firmly, and Arthur could see his eyes dart to the wrapped greatsword. “My order stands.”

Arthur gave a short bow, banishing the hope that Rhaegar would have rescinded his command for the Stark’s sword.

“It will be done, my king.”


	3. Chapter 2: The Surviving Serpent

Her shadow slipped through the city, weaving through the darkness between the rare lamp or torch, unseen and unnoticed, just as she wanted it to be. Her hurried steps barely disturbed the stones embedded in the streets as she slipped past the sleeping city with only the flap of her cloak fluttering in the night's breeze.

Suddenly, she stopped, pausing underneath the shadow of a ramshackle house in the midst of Flea Bottom as she waited with baited breath. She pulled the cloak tighter about her body and stepped back to the wall behind her and then stilled, seemingly becoming one with the darkness.

A moment passed before the damp streets were awash with the flickering light of a torch. The heavy tramp of armed guards echoed off the city's walls as they neared her, closer and closer. The torchlight rounded a corner on the street ahead of her, revealing two guards of the City Watch, adorned with their distinctive gold cloaks, patrolling the street with their mail glinting in the weak light. Their gait was relaxed and unhurried as they walked the same paths they had tread for a hundred nights before, not noticing the shrouded woman as they walked unknowingly past her, almost an arm's reach from where she stood silently.

Their steps remained unchanged and the light of their torch briefly fell upon her face as they walked away, revealing her but for a moment.

She had the face of a ghost.

Her eyes were a deep purple, like the sky when the burning desert sun dipped far below the horizon. When night ruled the sky and darkness reigned, the purple was indistinguishable from the void between stars. The hair that framed her face and flowed into a braid behind her was a shimmering black. The skin on her face was the deep olive typical of the descendants of the Rhoynar who had made their home in Dorne after fleeing Essos from the Valyrian dragonlords. 

It was the face of her mother.

Underneath the concealing cloak her luscious figure would have inspired men to sing songs of her beauty, as she possessed a lithe body with supple breasts above wide hips and a narrow waist. She had come into her womanhood like a king comes into his kingdom, with grace and majesty. Of course, very few knew that underneath the silk robes she usually wore was the lean muscles of a trained warrior, toned and sharp from years of practice. She had hardened her body with training like a sword sharpened on a grindstone. The few who were not friends or family (or a silent spider) to learn of this fact did not live long enough to tell the tale.

She was Rhaenys Targaryen, the only surviving child of Elia Martell.

Rhaenys loosened her grip on the plain sword strapped at her side. As soon as she was sure that the guards were a safe distance away she resumed her journey through the streets of King's Landing. While the goldcloaks were an unwelcome sight, they were easily spotted and avoided. Rhaenys knew it was those like herself who skulked in the shadows that she needed to be wary of. 

She could see a few candelights flicker behind closed shutters in the windows above the street, and every once in awhile, Rhaenys could hear the the muffled sound of voices behind moldy doors and shoddy stonework. Flea Bottom was not known for its quality masonry after all.

Rhaenys slowed her hurried stride as she approached the last corner before she arrived at her destination. This deep into Flea Bottom, most members of the nobility would lose themselves in these streets without someone to guide them, but Rhaenys had been exploring these streets since she had been a girl. A pastime that was known to only a select few, and of those, all but one she trusted.

She gripped the corner and peered around it, rehearsing the Spider's instructions to herself; ' _Find in Flea Bottom the house with the goat's head mounted above the door,'_ he had said. _'Inside, on the second floor, is a man with a box. I am told it is plain, but its appearance should not deceive you, smart girl that you are. I don't know where he hides it, but paranoid as he is, it won't be far. Kill or spare him, I don't care, but bring me the box.'_

Rhaenys had been weaving through the labyrinth that was Flea Bottom's collection of shacks, huts, and houses since dusk, searching for the building the Spider described. She knew that time was short, as dawn was fast approaching.

She studied the house with narrowed eyes. True to the Spider's word, a gaunt goat head was mounted above the door. Other than that one feature, her destination did not differ from the other houses in any way that she could discern. Its windows were boarded up, its door a mess of rotting wood, and the mortar barely held the misshaped bricks together. The house leaned precariously over the street as if a single breeze could bring it crashing down. It was crooked, and Rhaenys easily spotted the shoddy repair work done to keep the house standing.

She took a few more moments to ponder how she would proceed, but then a hand grabbed her shoulder and wrenched her back and slammed her against the wall. Her hand darted down to her knife but her opponent was quicker, covering her hand with their own in a firm grip.

Soft laughter filled the quiet of the night. “Sweet girl, I taught you better than to be caught by surprise.”

Relief flooded through Rhaenys and she relaxed immediately, letting out a sigh of both recognition and frustration. “ _Ashara.”_

Ashara Dayne smiled brightly down at Rhaenys, her violet eyes dancing with starlight. She was a little taller than Rhaenys with black hair that shimmered like the night sky. She wore a dark cloak, similar to Rhaenys’s own, that hid a beautiful body which had been known to drive men wild with lust. Unlike Rhaenys, Ashara did not have a sword but instead a variety of knives strapped at her sides. Rhaenys was sure there were more, and other sharp objects besides, but she also knew that Ashara would have kept them hidden from view.

The older woman let go and stepped back with an easy grace while her smile was replaced with a concerned frown. “If I was anyone else, you could have been killed.”

“If it was anyone else,” Rhaenys retorted hotly, “I would have noticed them sooner.”

Ashara gave a small smile and glanced around the corner at the house Rhaenys had just been about to sneak into. “Your arrogance is showing again, my little dragon. There are others like me, and some, I am reluctant to say, are probably _better._ Just because you are better than most does not mean there are not any better than _you._ I am not always going to be around to haul your pretty ass out of the fire.”

Rhaenys, although still annoyed by Ashara’s unexpected appearance, could not help but happily give a smart reply. “Fire does not burn me. So even if you were absent, I would still be fine.”

Ashara smiled the smile one gives when a person knows something the other does not, and _enjoys_ knowing it. “It is the fire that _does_ burn you that worries me.”

Rhaenys huffed but let the matter go, time was short and Ashara did not seem determined to stop her from enacting what she had come here to do. “Are you going to share how you knew where to find me?”

Ashara’s violet eyes grew distant for a moment before they snapped back into focus. “I dreamed that you would be here, so here _I_ am.” She paused for a moment, and her voice hardened. “The Spider sent you here.”

Rhaenys nodded, unsurprised but still vexed by Ashara’s insight. Ashara, for as long as Rhaenys had known her, had been gifted in foreseeing what path to take. Targaryens, as her father was wont to recite, had long been known to have ‘Dragon Dreams.’ 

Apparently, Rhaenys’s Dornish blood had not assisted her in that regards as she to date had not a single dream foretelling any fortune, whether it be who she would perhaps one day marry or the next day’s meal.

Daenerys had not been so unlucky, as she had on occasion been able to predict how to help herself and Rhaenys avoid her stepmother’s latest scheme. How Ashara Dayne, who did not have a drop of dragon’s blood, was so fine-tuned to the future’s fiddle was baffling. When Rhaenys asked, Ashara only replied with a sly smile and said, _‘Dragons dream but stars sing.’_

“He did not send me,” Rhaenys rebutted. “He hints. He does not make overt offers, but drops a whisper as to what he actually wants. When I last visited him, he would whine about a box here he wants, but was unable to get and how much he would be in debt to the person who could ‘aquire’ it for him. I told him I would get it and he was more than happy to provide directions.”

Ashara let out a sharp breath and crossed her arms. “You should not trust the Spider so easily, Rhaenys. He does not like our kind.”

Rhaenys reluctantly nodded, but was unwilling to totally concede. “His distaste is obvious, but he is also practical. So long as we do not start sacrificing children or cutting off men’s dicks he is willing to tolerate our practice. I think he disfavors the practitioners of his native Essos, probably because of whoever made him a eunuch, if I had to guess. He bears us no ill will, and has been useful in the past and he would rather work with me when it comes to dealing with ‘our kind,’ as you say, rather than a stranger. He knows that to catch a rat you need a _cat_.”

“Of which you are _neither_ , young dragon. If the Spider wanted a cat, he should have beguiled _Tyrion Lannister_ into doing his dirty work,” Ashara said scathingly. She remained, unsurprisingly, skeptical. Rhaenys knew that Ashara had a long standing aversion of anything to do with the Spider.

Ashara stepped closer, looming over Rhaenys, concern marring her beautiful face. “What does he know, Rhaenys? What are you after this time? Another old rebel? Old Baratheon supporters? The Spider knows how to weave his web, and he has you tightly trapped! He dangles information about Elia’s killers in front of you like a carrot, and you _bite_ every time like a trained show pony!”

Rhaenys’s blood fired up and she jerked away from Ashara and glared at the house again, knowing the accusation struck home. However, she knew how to turn Ashara’s scrutiny away from her weakness and hopefully towards something they could both work towards. She took her anger, turned it into a weapon, and then let it out in a single, fiery breath. “ _Robert Baratheon_.”

Ashara’s attitude shifted in a heartbeat and she dashed forward and gripped Rhaeny’s arm tightly, her eyes wide with surprise. “The Spider knows where he is? After all this time? _Where_?” But then Ashara froze, and stepped back. She seemed abashed, and after a moment she nodded in acknowledgement of their shared obsession. “If he had that, you would not be here. You would be on the next ship bound for Essos.”

No one knew where Robert Baratheon had gone after he escaped from King’s Landing amidst the chaos of Aerys’s wildfire fiasco. The only sign he had left behind of his survival had been the dead bodies of Elia Martell and Aegon Targaryen.

Rhaenys let out a breath, glad that the argument was put to rest for the moment. Since her mother’s murder when she was a child, Ashara had raised her in Elia’s stead. Ashara was the closest person she had to a mother and she did not like being at odds with her. She reached and gripped Ashara’s hand in her own, and for a moment the two locked eyes, purple to violet. Years of pain, grief, and love flowed between them along an unbreakable bond. Ashara had been there for all the years since that terrible moment when her mother and brother were killed by Robert Baratheon after he escaped Tywin Lannister during the chaos of Aerys’s final hour.

"You are right, he does not know yet…but he _will_. Baratheon cannot hide forever. When his _'little birds'_ do find him, I want the Spider to owe me a favor. A _big_ favor,” Rhaenys told Ashara confidently. "He will tell me when he does find out and then justice will finally find Baratheon's neck," Rhaenys said darkly, her hand tightening on her sword's pommel. 

For a long moment Ashara stared at her in silence and Rhaenys wondered if she had said too much, and now Ashara would try to stop her. She knew without a single doubt that her mentor shared her vengeful desire, but she also knew that Ashara had always put Rhaenys’s well being before any ambition for revenge. 

Ashara was the first to look away, though she kept her hand in Rhaenys's own. "Rhaenys, I know you want justice, but your mother would not have wanted you risking your life trying to avenge her. She would want you to _enjoy_ the peace we have, find love, and raise a family of your own. d _You_ are what she treasured, not her crown or that cursed throne."

Rhaenys's heart ached at these words. Ashara had been her mother's handmaiden during her time as a member of King Aerys's court, and would know Elia's wishes for her daughter's future better than anyone. However, she suspected hat Ashara's blood burned as hot for revenge as her own.

"Mother is _dead_ ," Rhaenys bitterly reminded her. "She no longer wants anything. What do _you_ want?"

Ashara jerked her head to the side as she tried to hide the look of anger that flitted across her face. It seemed that Rhaeny’s words had struck a chord in her.

“I want Robert Baratheon to _bleed_ ,” she hissed. “I want to chase every murderer that was there that day and hang them! I want to stick them with my spear and make them bleed, _slowly._ I want make them suffer!” Ashara confessed. Rhaenys could see Ashara’s face contort as she tried to find the words to fully express the depth of her deadly desires. Ashara looked Rhaenys in the face. “I want to kick Rhaegar across the throne room for how he treated her!” Ashara said without remorse. 

She grabbed Rhaenys by the shoulders and shook her gently. “For how he treats _you,_ his own daughter, as another body to sacrifice to his precious promised prince!” Ashara was breathing hard, her breasts rising and falling rapidly as she spilled out her soul. Rhaenys was startled by the reaction she had incited in Ashara, wondering how long Ashara had longed to speak openly like this. “I want Rhaegar to suffer for submitting you to that _wretch_ with a woman’s skin.”

“ _Queen Cersei,”_ Ashara spat. “I want to tear her crown off her head and slap her smirking face! I want to whip her like a dog and her all the way back to Casterly Rock!”

“Then, when _you_ sit on your rightful place on the Iron Throne“ Ashara said with a spirited fervor. “I want to ride north and batter down the gates of Winterfell,” Ashara whispered harshly. “I want Stark to step out of her castle and _fight_ me! I want _beat_ her, I want to _hit_ her, and then I want to fu-“ Ashara stopped suddenly, and let go of Rhaenys. She looked away, and Rhaenys got the feeling that Ashara thought she had said too much.

But before Rhaenys could question Ashara, her mentor grabbed ahold of both her shoulders and stepped closer. Rhaenys could feel Ashara’s hot breath on her face as Ashara leaned her head against Rhaeny’s own. Her voice was soft now, having lost all anger and agony. “But I would give all that I want and all that I am if it meant that you would be _happy_ , my little dragon.”

Rhaenys felt tears form in her purple eyes and she let them flow freely down her cheeks so that Ashara would know that Rhaenys was not ashamed to share her emotions. “I want that,” Rhaenys told Ashara. “I want to remember the feeling of _love_ and _family_ before mother and little Aegon were murdered in front of me. I want to take you, Daenerys, and even little Alysse away from my father’s plans and Cersei’s schemes.” 

Rhaenys spoke softer, but her words were swords. “But I need to find _justice_ for my mother and for my brother. I lived and they died. Mother hid me from them when they ambushed us among the ruins of Summerhall on the way to Dorne after my father became king, giving up all hope of saving herself so that _I_ could live. I know I should feel nothing but gratitude, but all I feel _night_ after _night_ is this gnawing guilt from knowing that they died and I lived.” Rhaenys closed her eyes and sucked in a breath. “I _need_ to make her sacrifice mean something. I have to find her killer if I am ever to find peace. If I do, it will mean mother did not die needlessly; that her sacrifice accomplished something.”

Ashara cupped her face gently. “Oh Rhae, all Elia wanted was for you to live, and you have. You should not torture yourself like this.” A moment of silence passed between the two women.

Ashara nodded firmly, coming to a decision. "So," she said and Ashara put a hand on Rhaenys's shoulder and turned her back around so that they were both surveying the house at the end of the street. "What does the Spider want from this hovel?"

Rhaenys turned back to the house again, studying the goat above the door. “A man lives here, but the Spider wants a box. He does not care about the man. My plan is to sneak in when he is asleep and take it.”

Ashara did not look impressed. “Alright, but what is in the box?”

“I do not know,” Rhaenys admitted and shrugged her shoulders. Then she grinned. “But I will find out soon enough.”

Ashara snorted. “I have taught you many useful skills, little dragon, but I see we still need to work on your arrogance.”

“It is not arrogance if it is true.”

Ashara let out a dramatic sigh. “ _Targaryens.”_

Rhaenys laughed quietly at Ashara. She leaned against the corner and tossed her head at the house. “Do you see anyone? I have looked, but I have not seen the man the Spider described.”

“No,” Ashara murmured. She narrowed her eyes at the house. “I do wonder though why the Spider did not send one of his own thieves. This house is in Flea Bottom and it is clearly unguarded. No knights, guards, or even a single hired thug. The Spider has thieves for this sort of job. Why would he want you to handle this?”

Rhaenys had been wondering that too, but it had only made her more curious. She turned and glanced back around the corner at a boarded up house. “I am ready to find out…are you?”

Ashara nodded. “How shall we do it? Bust down the door and take him by surprise?”

“Hhmm,” Rhaenys considered. “It would work, but it might attract unwanted attention. A couple of goldcloaks just passed by not half an hour ago. I propose we pick the lock and slip in and out quietly with no one being the wiser.”

Ashara smiled, “Good, _sneaky_ is my style.”

Together, they walked down the street towards the house, staying in the shadows. The night was dark and the moon dim, with some clouds that had blown in from over Blackwater Bay. The two of them strode down until they were just outside the house. 

Rhaenys pulled out a skeleton key, which had been a gift from a grateful spider. She crouched down in front of the door and put the skeleton key in the lock, moving it carefully around until she heard the tumblers fall into place. The lock clicked and Rhaenys carefully opened the door.

She stepped inside the house, making sure to watch where she stepped for loose boards, and Ashars silently followed, closing the door behind them.

The house was shabby, with cobwebs decorating the ceiling and used candlewax dripping from unlit candles. Here and there were some chairs, a table, and a bookshelf full of jars. A shabby stairway led to the second level, where the man living here was no doubt sleeping. It smelled of old wood, wet stone, and something rotten. It was pungent in this shack, but Rhaenys could not distinguish the smell from anything else in Flea Bottom. 

So far, nothing she saw stood out to her as unique or strange enough to catch the Spider’s attention. By all appearances, it was just another smelly house in Flea Bottom slowly falling apart. Ashara too seem unimpressed, glancing here and there with experienced eyes. 

Ashara gave a mock curtsey and gestured at Rhaenys to go first up the stairs to the second level, but not before she drew a long, thin dagger from her belt. Rhaenys did the same, pulling a short but wickedly sharp Braavosi knife from her boot, a gift from her Uncle Oberyn. Drawing a sword now would create unwanted noise and fighting in a closed space was better with a good knife than with a sword anyway.

Slowly, ever so carefully, Rhaenys crept up the stairs with Ashara behind her. She reached the door and cracked it open a little. The room was dark, but she could see a body-shaped lump under some old moldy blankets on a small bed pushed up against the wall. There was a chest at the foot of the bed and a desk to her right with some paper, an ink well, a ragged quill, and a small book. Rhaenys could sense Ashara looking over her shoulder and into the room, searching just as much for the box the Spider coveted.

Rhaenys stepped into the room and to the left and Ashara did the same to the right, neither of them making any noise. This was not the first time they had crept somewhere they should not have, and Ashara had made sure that Rhaenys had spent hours of practice in moving around silently. Ashara went over to the desk and started to slowly search through the desk, motioning needlessly for Rhaenys to open the chest.

Rhaenys walked closer and took a glance at the man sleeping soundly in the bed. He was short, somewhat plump, with a full black beard, and a bald head. He was dirty, and if Rhaenys were willing to torture herself, she was sure he would have smelled like he looked. He was surrounded by jars and bottles which were either broken, empty, or full of questionable looking liquid. He was curled up on the pile of glass like a ragged bird in a nest. He snored very shallowly through crooked gray teeth.

Reassured of the man’s sleep, Rhaenys glanced down at the chest and carefully opened it, wincing when the hinges squeaked a little. Her eyes darted back up to the man but he remained asleep, so she returned her attention to the contents of the chest. Old clothes with holes and a few blankets were piled inside, but that was it. She poked around a few times and she only felt more fabric until her finger hit something solid.

Smiling to herself, Rhaenys used her other hand to pull back the clothes, revealing a small and plain box, just as the Spider had described. She brought it up and pulled open her cloak, intending to put it into one of her pockets when she heard the tinkling of glass on the bed as the man stirred. She stood up and stepped back as quietly as possible, hoping that the man was only resting fitfully. She brought her knife back with her hand, ready to throw it with deadly intent. 

Two brown eyes stared back at her in surprise.

Rhaenys flipped her dagger in her hand and prepared to throw it, aiming for the soft patch of flesh above his collar bone.

…and then he spoke.

His voice was like gravel grinding against stone, rough and…and…

_…mesmerizing._

There was a clash of thought. The man spoke with a voice that could make ears bleed and yet Rhaenys had this urge to _listen **more.**_

Something was wrong.

Rhaenys had the dagger in her hand and it was poised to fly, but there was no tension in her arm, no strength to send it home.

She heard his voice and watched his lips move as he leaned towards her, reaching for the dagger, and all the while Rhaenys crouched there, frozen, helpless.

Then the hilt of Ashara’s knife slammed into his face.

An ugly _crunch_ cracked through the room and the man screamed angrily as he jumped back onto the pile of glass on the bed, pinching his broken nose as blood poured down his face.

The spell was broken.

Cold crept over her limbs as the hesitation that had been smothering her fled from body. What was she doing? Why did she freeze?

The man was screaming, shards of glass protruding from his flesh from where he had fallen back onto the pile. His shrieks of pain was a broken cadence to her ears, half serene and half squawk. She grabbed her sword and pulled it clear of its sheath. 

Years of training under Ashara's tutelage had taught her much about the nature of magic. How to feel it, how to focus it, how to use it, but most importantly, how to _fight_ it.

There were different ways to counter another's magic, both subtle and blunt. 

Rhaenys, unfortunately for the cretin before her, lacked the patience to be subtle.

Rhaenys gripped the sword in both hands and brought it back, and this time she could feel the strength gathered in her arms. He saw the glint of her sword and his eyes grew wide with panic. He tried to speak but he choked on the blood flowing down his throat.

Rhaenys swung her sword in a wide arc and her blade cut cleanly through the man’s neck. His body fell back onto the bed while his head tumbled across the floor. Ashara put her foot on the head to stop its roll and made a noise of interest as she glared down at the head curiously.

Rhaenys, on the other hand, felt nausea bubbling up in her stomach. She gripped the wooden frame of the bed in an attempt to steady herself. The urge to vomit was imposing, but Rhaenys managed to hold down the sickness bubbling inside her.

It was not the kill that had upset her, Rhaenys had killed many a man before tonight, but the ease at which his magic had affected her was beyond disturbing. Never, _never_ had she encountered a magician outside of Ashara that could cast an enchantment that befuddled her senses to the point of where her very life was in danger.

A few seconds, only an infinitesimal moment of doubt, or even the slightest lack of focus was all it took to end up as a corpse.

Rhaenys knew this all too well, remembering briefly the fear and surprise that had crept across her bones when she had witnessed Robert Baratheon’s hammer smash her great uncle, Prince Lewyn Martell, into the ground outside her carriage, his chest crushed. He had been the last great defender standing between the would be usurper and her family.

Rhaenys banished the memory to the depths of her smoldering heart. Now was not the time to dwell on her family's murder. There was work to be done.

She turned around to find that Ashara had slammed the head onto the desk and was now examining it. Ashara turned it over with one hand while she held her knife in the other.

“Who…was _that_?!” Rhaenys gasped.

“Not who,” Ashara said. “ _What_.” She pried the head’s mouth open and pulled out the tongue, severing it with a swift flick of her knife and pushing the head off onto the floor. Ashara snapped her fingers and a candle flickered to life. She held the severed tongue next to the candle to get a better look.

A flash of metal caught Rhaenys’s eye as she stepped up next to Ashara and peered down at the tongue with her mentor. In the middle of the severed tongue was a silver piercing. Ashara made a few more deft cuts and the tongue joined the head on the floor. The silver piercing, stained with fresh scarlet blood, had a few small runes carved into the metal that Rhaenys vaguely recognized.

“This…is what was affecting you,” Ashara told her. She held it in between her fingers as she scowled at it. “It is _magic.”_

Rhaeny’s blood ran hot with realization. “ _That_ is why the Spider wanted me to come here! He sent somebody here before and this man must have killed them.”

Ashara nodded. “I doubt the Spider knew what it was exactly, but I would wager that it must have been easy for him to deduce that some sort of magic was at work, especially if the Spider had tried several times. He probably thought you were more powerful than whatever this pile of vulture food had up his sleeve. Targaryens are one of the few families in Westeros with a known history of magic in their blood after all.”

Shame welled up in Rhaenys at the thought of how easily she had hesitated, how she had failed to recognize the magic being woven into the man’s words. She was supposed to be _strong!_ Rhaenys had studied magic for _years_ under Ashara’s careful tutelage. How would she avenge her mother and brother if she could not best some scumbag with a cheap magic trick! Ashara noticed her despair and gripped Rhaenys’s chin, turning her head towards her gently.

“Do not fret, the man was naught but a fool. _This_ , however,” she held up the silver piercing at eye level. “This was _powerful_. Only a witch with years of experience could have overcome this quickly. You probably would have been able endure its magic if you had known about it and had prepared yourself beforehand.” Ashara scowled at the piercing darkly. “I am glad my dreams led me to join you tonight.”

Rhaenys glared at the piercing before turning her ire to the around to the room. “How did _he_ get it? People don’t just _have_ magical artifacts, especially peasants.”

Ashara blew out the candle and stood back up. “A question to ask the Spider when you deliver the box to him.” She held out the piercing to Rhaenys. “Here, take it.”

Rhaenys accepted it from her and put it in a pocket. “What was it? I did not recognize its magic from our lessons.”

Ashara shook her head and sighed with frustration. “I do not know. However, if I were to guess, I would say it was meant to coerce people.”

“You do not _know?!”_ Rhaenys asked incredulously. “You told me you knew everything there was to _know_ about magic! You have been training me for _years_ and I still do not know as much as you! _How_ can you possibly not know?!”

Ashara walked past her and picked up the box. “I told you I knew everything there was to know about _Dorne’s_ magic. The magic of our shared ancestors, the Rhoynar. That piercing…is _Valyrian_.”

Rhaenys was shocked, but then she realized how she had vaguely recognized the runes engraved on the piercing. Daenerys, her father’s sister, who snapped up any knowledge of Valyria like a dragon devours sheep, had privately given her a book for Rhaenys’s nameday last year detailing some Valyrian runes after Rhaenys had revealed to her aunt that she and Arianne had been learning magic from Ashara in secret.

“How is that possible? All the knowledge of how to use Valyrian magic is supposed to be _lost._ What is a Valyrian tongue piercing doing in the mouth of a Flea Bottom thug?!” Rhaenys yelled, losing all patience. This night had seemed so simple to her, but nothing had gone as she had envisioned. 

“We seem to be leaving this hovel with more questions than answers,” Ashara said, turning towards the stairwell. “Perhaps it is time I pay the Spider…a _visit_. He may very well have the answers to our questions.”

Rhaenys took the box from Ashara as she walked past. She studied the plain, simple, wooden box that had been the reason for this whole endeavor. Curiosity burning within, she opened the box and peered inside.

Letters. It was a box full of letters. She pulled out one at random, glanced at it, and then pulled out another. No names, seals, or coat of arms were present. There was nothing obvious on the parchment that revealed who had written them. There was only written words inscribed by ink or charcoal. Her frustration and curiosity was pulling at her in equal strength.

She snapped her fingers and the candle Ashara had just extinguished roared back to life, practically melting the top half of the candle instantly. She held a letter up to the light and studied it, hoping that she would be able to glean something from the written words. 

“Eventually, perhaps,” Rhaenys told Ashara. “But there might be someone…someone more _trustworthy_ that I want to talk to first.”


	4. Chapter 3: The Dreaming Dragon

Chapter III: The Dreaming Dragon

_She opened her eyes and the world welcomed her with a cacophony of sound._

_Daenerys was standing atop the tallest tower of the Red Keep, but instead of the usual visage of King's Landing stretching out from the base of the palace, she could see the world beyond, all of Westeros and Essos. Castles and towns that she had visited, keeps that were foggy memories, and even fortresses and cities that she had only read about in her books._

_Animals of all shapes and sizes roamed the lands; squeaking, roaring, hissing, clawing, and biting at one another._

_Below her, in King's Landing, little mice scurried through the streets as they devoured the meager morsels they could scrape together. A mockingbird was nested among them, frolicking and flirting with the other exotic birds who nested nearby, occasionally swooping down to scoop up a mouse, toying with the mouse using its small talons before taking a red peck out of the mouse's flesh._

_A hairless spider crawled out of the shadows and looked disdainfully, but warily, at the mockingbird with a few of its eyes while its other eyes studied the mass of creatures scurrying around it. It spun its web quietly and silently as it waited patiently. The mice that inevitably became trapped in the spider's web were either released or devoured, with the released mice returning with maggots or insects to offer to their merciful master._

_Inside the Red Keep was an entire menagerie of creatures that pushed and shoved at one another, vying for the attention of the silver lizard that sat rigidly on the Iron Throne. While the other creatures roiled in a bickering crowd the lizard looked beyond them and seemed to yearn to leap above them and take flight. However, the silver lizard remained in its seat, knowing the limit of its capabilities. A lioness with a golden coat and adorned with a choker fitted with a burning red ruby around her graceful neck reclined against the base of the Iron Throne, biting and scratching other animals at a whim, and even occasionally snatching up an animal with her powerful jaws in a fit of fury with a single bite and then devouring it._

_Trumpets rang out and the animals in the throne room parted to reveal three golden dragons laying before the silver lizard and the golden lion. All the other animals crawled back in fear and awe of these glimmering beasts. The first dragon, the oldest, was taller and stronger than the others with burning red eyes and a powerful body. He held himself proudly above his siblings as he stretched his long neck above them. The second dragon was of a leaner build with wings built for speed. He too held himself proudly, but unlike his older brother the younger dragon crouched lower and watched the other beasts with a wary gaze, crouching in front of his elder brother protectively. The last of the three dragons was the youngest and the smallest, a hatchling. She hopped playfully around her larger and fiercer brothers until she grew bored with them and climbed on top of the lioness and slept peacefully._

_All the animals paid homage to these three proud dragons, bringing them food and jewelry and piling it at their feet._

_But while all the other animals in the throne room crawled low in front of the dragons or basked in their glory, Daenerys's eyes were drawn to a dark corner that was neglected by the other creatures. A snake with scarlet, orange, and obsidian scales was coiled up among the pale and broken bones of other snakes surrounding it. It would hiss at any animal that dared to approach it; its black eyes watching the other creatures with distrust._

_As she watched, the snake turned away from the dragons, the lizard, and the lioness and slithered through a crack in the wall. Curious, Daenerys followed the snake outside and found herself not in King's Landing, but in Dorne. She had never visited the southern desert kingdom in person, but it was easy to recognize Sunspear from the illustrations she had studied in the Royal Library._

_The snake she had followed was much more comfortable here, and Daenerys watched her mingle with the other snakes that called Sunspear home. The other snakes did not share her dark stripes, but they possessed a similar shade of orange. The red snake was particularly fond of the snake with a large golden sun on its crest. These two snakes were like sisters in beauty and grace and they became tangled in one another, intertwining and rubbing their scales together in a dance only they understood._

_While these sister snakes danced together, a younger snake approached them and bit his sister, the orange snake with the sun crest. She hissed back at him and bared her fangs at him and he slithered back quickly, but even then he still watched her with venomous fangs at the ready._

_A roar broke Daenerys's attention and she turned around and found herself in the Westerlands. Casterly Rock, the great plateau that rose above Lannisport, loomed above her, massive and intimidating. Daenerys searched for the fortess but did not find it. In its place was an old lion whose fur had turned gray with age. His paws were stained scarlet; the only splash of color his body possessed. But though the lion was old, his claws were still sharp and he bared his teeth at any creature who displeased him. When not roaring or growling, the old lion held himself up with tremendous pride and raised his head above all the other beasts. He moved slowly but with purpose and none of the other animals dared approach him. Bones of hundreds of different beasts were piled up around him like a dragon's hoard. As she watched, Daenerys realized that the lion not only loomed over the Westerlands, but over all of Westeros as if his pile of bones was the Iron Throne in the Red Keep._

_Crisp and clear howling washed over Daenerys and overwhelmed all her senses. She closed her eyes and let the sound was over her. The howling awoken something primal in her, making her feel free and wild. When Daenerys opened her purple eyes again she was knee deep in snow at the base of the Wall._

_Two white wolves ran through the forests of the North with a wild abandon, playfully nipping at each other as they hunted. The two wolves were mother and son and they shared the same snow white fur, but the she-wolf's tail was as blue as the glaciers of the lands beyond the wall. They shared the same grey eyes. The young wolf, Daenerys could tell, was protective of his mother and was not a stranger to violence from the way he held himself, as if he were cornered and would rip out the throat of any beast that schemed to harm them. Only with his mother did the younger white wolf relax, playful nipping at his mother's tail whenever the opportunity arose._

_The she-wolf was larger than her pup and though she would nip fiercely back at the other wolf whenever he toyed with her, Daenerys could tell that she enjoyed the attention. When Daenerys took a closer look at the she-wolf, she noticed the litany of battle-scars that littered her hide, barely hidden by her white fur._

_As she watched, the wolves found a hole in the Wall among some dark ruins and crawled through it, ignoring the crow's cry of protest from atop the Wall. Once they were beyond the wall, the pair of wolves practically sprinted across the ice and snow, howling and barking at the mammoths and seals that called the lands beyond the Wall home._

_The moon glinted off something shiny, and the she-wolf stopped to scratch fiercely at her neck, where a steel collar was fasted tightly around her._

_" **Fate!"**_

_Daenerys spun around to find a raven perched upon a tall white tree. Unlike all the other beasts, who had ignored her presence, the raven stared at her with its fathomless black eyes._

_Three eyes._

**_"Fate!"_ ** _the raven croaked again. It flapped its wings a few times and then raised its head to the heavens. **"Fire! Fire!"**_

_The sky was stained with flames as a red star cracked across the sky, bathing the world in a crimson light. Daenerys was captivated by the star's beauty, marveling at how it radiated both power and majesty with its scarlet flames crackling across the sky. Daenerys felt like some part of her had always been asleep, but that the star's appearance had awoken a dormant part of her soul that had been in a deep slumber, unknown to her before this moment._

_A dragon's ferocious roar broke her reverie and Daenerys found herself again in King's Landing. The animals again surrounded the three dragons, who proudly basked in the red light of the burning star. The strongest and oldest of the dragons flapped his wings in triumphant glory. He roared in chorus with the flames of the star in the heavens as the other animals cowered beneath him in both fear and rapture._

_The three-eyed raven landed on Daenerys's shoulder. **"Blood! Blood!"** it cried._

_T_ _he golden dragon's righteous roar twisted into horror and anguish as the red light began to burn him, smoke rising off his golden scales as they started to melt, much like an idol tossed into a furnace. The dragon's screams of agony sent spikes of pain through Daenerys's ears._

_Furious hissing whispered from the south as a snake writhed tortuously in the sand while black wings erupted from its spine in a shower of blood._

_A horrendous howl from the north was distantly heard while the wolf's white fur was replaced by blue and white scales._

_Flames erupted all around her, engulfing her in their hot embrace. But she did not burn. Instead of pain, she felt pleasure, as if the fire were her lover, taking her to bed once more. She felt a strange, smooth sensation crawl from the tips of her fingers to her chest and looked down to find that her smooth, unblemished skin had been replaced by scarlet scales and her fingers hardened into sharp black talons. Daenerys opened her mouth and cried out, but instead of a scream, a tongue of red fire burst forth from her mouth._

_A howl of outrage spiked her senses and Daenerys looked up from her claws to see the she-wolf howling atop the Wall above an old, abandoned, and dark fortress with the moon rising behind her._

_The raven cawed once more from her shoulder, " **Winter! Winter!"**_

Daenerys awoke and let loose a gasp as she sat up, clutching her silk sheets to her bare body, trying to contain the warmth of the fire that had consumed her near the end of her dream. Her breath came out in short, frantic bursts as her heart beat quickly beneath her breast. Sunlight was sneaking through the curtains of her balcony as the sun dawned over Visenya's Hill.

Before her waking swept away the last vestiges of her dream, Daenerys tried to commit every detail of her dream to memory so that she could try to decipher its meaning. Abandoning the warmth of her bed, Daenerys practically sprinted across the room to her desk. She ignored the feel of the crisp morning air caressing her naked body. She reached under her desk and twisted one of the stylized dragons carved into the wood. A secret compartment clicked open and she took the dream journal gifted to her by Ashara from its hidden compartment so that she could write down what fragments she could remember. Ashara had always advised her to write down her dreams as soon as she awoke, so that time and events did not diminish her recollection of whatever vision had visited her during the night.

Dipping her quill into the inkwell, Daenerys quickly scribbled down her dream on the first vacant page she could find. Last night's dream had been unusually vivid, and she had learned enough from Ashara to recognize the importance of the portents that had pranced through her mind. After a few minutes of furious writing, Daenerys leaned back in her chair and stretched, content with her recollection. Although she was satisfied with her record of the dream, interpreting it would be another matter altogether, and a frustrating one at that. 

It was simple to infer that the different animals were symbolic of the different lords and ladies of the houses of Westeros, especially those associated with an animal of one sort or another; dragons for House Targaryen, snakes for House Martell, lions for House Lannister, and direwolves for House Stark.

Daenerys was struck by an odd thought. Direwolves? As in more than one? The last time she had checked, Lady Lyanna Stark was the last of her house and remained unwed. It was well known in Rhaegar's court that Lady Stark had outright refused the notion of entertaining any thoughts of marriage to anyone. Any suitors brave enough to approach the aloof Lady of Winterfell had quickly, and quite firmly, been sent away. Queen Cersei loved to whisper in the ears of the ladies of the court all the different ways in which Lady Stark was an unsuitable bride.

She made a few notes in her journal as she pondered over the details of her dream, writing down what she thought the dreams translated into.

A knock at her chamber door disturbed her concentration and she hastily stowed the journal into its hidden compartment before leaping onto the bed and twisting herself into the sheets in an attempt to make it look as though she had not yet left the bed.

"Who is it?" Daenerys asked with yawn. The servants knew that she prefered to dress herself before letting them style her long silver hair for the day.

"It is only your _beloved_ niece, Dany" answered a frustrated voice sharply.

Daenerys relaxed and sank deeper into the bed while a smile flitted across her face. There was only one person in the entire Red Keep who called her Dany. Despite the voice's rude tone, she replied cheerfully. "Come in!"

The door swung open to reveal Rhaenys, her rigid posture hinting at the simmering anger her niece carried like armor. Curiously, she held in her hands a small wooden box. She was dressed in a traditional Dornish silk dress with the deep red and black color scheme of their House. Daenerys, of course, firmly believed that the style enhanced Rhaeny's beautiful desert form, but which according to Queen Cersei was the type of dress worn by the whores of King's Landing. A suspicious coincidence, Daenerys suspected, as the brothels of King's Landing received a generous donation of Dornish silk in the weeks following Rhaenys's return to the capital several years ago from an 'anonymous' admirer.

Daenerys herself had a few gifts from Lady Ashara, Rhaenys, and Princess Arianne (at Rhaenys's insistent prodding no doubt), but she only wore them when she was with Rhaenys in private as Queen Cersei had made her disdain for the Dornish dress style known quite clear. The queen tended to favor the ladies of the court that dressed in the style of the Westerlands, with their laced bodices, golden threads, and crimson silk. To date, only Rhaenys ignored this unsaid rule and dressed as she wanted while attending court. 

Daenerys sometimes envied the utter disregard Rhaenys had for the queen's opinions. While she did not particularity need or want Cersei's favor (nor did she think the queen would give it to her even if Daenerys groveled at her feet), neither did Daenerys want to inspire Cersei's _disfavor._ The queen only ever seemed to favor her own children and her relatives from the Westerlands, with the notable exception of Casterly Rock’s local dwarf.

Poor Tyrion's every breath seemed to offend the queen, and nothing short of throwing himself into Blackwater Bay with a millstone around his neck would make Cersei smile in regards to her little brother. Even Tyrion Lannister's position as Master of Coin earned him little pardon from Cersei's ire. Their bickering on the Small Council was a great source of amusement to Rhaenys, Daenerys knew, when learned of the latest gossip concerning the Small Council from her Uncle Oberyn.

While Daenerys understood that Rhaenys was her older brother's daughter, making Daenerys Rhaenys's aunt, she had always understood their relationship to be similar to that of sisters. In a way, Rhaenys was more of a sister to Daenerys than Rhaegar was a brother. Rhaenys had always been there for her, as far back as Daenerys's memory went. While nursemaids had come and gone and Cersei had shown no interest in being motherly towards her husband's baby sister, Rhaenys had been a constant presence in her life, even though Rhaenys had lived in Dorne for the first half of Daenerys's life. Rhaenys had sent her letters and gifts and Daenerys had returned the favor as soon as she had learned to write her own letters. She had always been uncomfortable dictating her personal correspondence with her niece to a maester, and Rhaenys had taught Daenerys the importance of learning how to send her own letters by raven when she was young during the rare visits to King’s Landing Rhaenys would take when they were younger.

Rhaenys strode in, slamming the door behind her as she made her ways towards the bed. She sat herself down with a nary a sound and appraised Daenery's undressed form with an appreciative eye. A small grin broke through her frustrated demeanor and it danced across Rhaenys's face as her purple eyes traveled up and down her naked body, from the silver hair crowning her mound between her legs to her pert round breasts, fixating on her pointed nipples which were cold from the morning air.

Daenerys blushed despite herself, knowing that Rhaenys would bed her here and now if Daenerys so much as expressed the desire for her to do so. After Daenerys had blossomed into a woman, Rhaenys had taken it upon herself to teach Daenerys in the ways of love the same way Arianne had taught Rhaenys,.

Of course, Daenerys was of the opinion that it was more likely that Arianne and Rhaenys had taught each other, seeing how the two were closer in age with one another than they were with her. She suspected though that since it was Rhaenys who had asserted that Arianne taught her, then it was Arianne who had at least _initiated_ their 'lessons.' Knowing Arianne, Daenerys had no doubt she had been the first to explore the arts of lovemaking. Arianne had always been proud to boast that if she had not been born a princess, she would have made an amazing courtesan like the famous _Black Pearl_ or the _Daughter of Dusk_ in the Free Cities.

It was no secret to Daenerys that Rhaenys and Arianne had been lovers for many years, but that was only because Rhaenys had entrusted that secret with her. To all others, with the exception of Ashara and no doubt a few of the older Sand Snakes, Rhaenys and Arianne were cousins who were as good as sisters, thanks to Rhaenys being raised in Sunspear after the rebellion and her mother’s murder.

Daenerys leaned against Rhaenys for a moment and appreciated the soft cushion her niece's breasts provided while also reaching back to marvel for a moment at her niece's firm, toned stomach. Rhaenys had been blessed with the body of an Essossi fertility goddess and Rhaenys had taken that form and shaped it into a sleek and dangerous Rhoynish huntress that even Nymeria herself would have been envious of. Daenerys idly wondered if her own breasts would ever approach the size of her niece's and concluded that she would first have to lay with a man, watch her belly swell, feel her breasts engorge with milk, and then birth a few children before that happened.

She snuggled deeper into the valley of her niece’s breasts and reveled in their warmth, taking comfort in how they rose and fell with every breath Rhaenys took. Rhaenys’s strong heart beat firmly against her back, a comforting reminder with every pulse.

Daenerys smiled as she heard, and _felt,_ Rhaenys laugh behind her.

“My sweet aunt,” said Rhaenys. “I would love to do nothing more than enjoy your gentle caresses, and subject you to _mine,_ _”_ at the last word Daenerys yelped as Rhaenys reached around and firmly gripped her breasts, causing her to giggle and squirm. Rhaenys let out a sigh, however, and loosened her teasing grip, much to Daenerys’s disappointment. She had liked where her morning was heading. “But we must put off our frivolities till later, I’m afraid. Father has _requested_ that we be present for today’s court session.”

Daenerys furrowed her brow in thought. While they both had an open invitation to attend court at any time, Daenerys knew that Rhaenys only rarely did so. The only times Rhaenys voluntarily subjected herself to the court’s scrutiny was when it involved members of Robert Baratheon’s rebellion. 

Daenerys herself, however, attended court regularly. She wanted to know what was happening in the Seven Kingdoms and how House Targaryen dealt with the problems and crises that inevitably arose. 

But something was off with her niece’s statement.

“Rhaenys…court does not start until after the King’s morning meal. Which,” she checked the position of the sun hanging above King’s Landing, “is not for another half-hour.”

“I know, but today is the official announcement of Daeron’s imminent return from Volantis. The Queen is having the ladies of the court coordinate their dresses beforehand. You know she wants to make sure that she and Alyss outshine all others. Usually, I would ignore her whims and wear what I want regardless of her disapproval, but father wants to display unity, or so that is what Ser Arthur told me.” Rhaenys pulled away reluctantly and they sat side by side on the bed. She grabbed out the wooden box she had set aside and handed it to Daenerys.

To Daenerys’s eyes, it was an ordinary wooden box. However, she sensed that something about it was important by the grave grimace that marred Rhaenys’s beautiful face.

“What is this?” Daenerys asked.

“A box full of letters without names. I know not from where they came from nor where they were going and their contents reveal nothing to me.” Rhaenys said with frustration. “I found it last night in Flea Bottom, in the home of a foul man with foul intentions.” She reached beneath her silk robe and pulled out a small steel pin. “He had this in his tongue.” Rhaenys’s scowl deepened. “It is a _foul_ magic. The magic of slavers.”

_Magic._

Rhaenys certainly knew how to get her attention. Ever since she had been a girl, stories she had heard of the ancient magics that had once flourished in Westeros had held her captive. Tales of greenseers, holy knights, witches, firemages, moonsingers, and skinchangers filled her dreams. The magic of her Targaryen ancestors, of Old Valyria, held a special place in Daenerys’s heart. Anything connected to magic was of extreme interest to her. Nevertheless, Daenerys did not touch it. Nothing good ever happened to those who touched magic unknown to them. “Since you have it in your hand I assume he either lacks a tongue or lacks a head.”

Rhaenys smirked. “Both, as a matter of fact.”

Daenerys sighed. She did not share Rhaenys’s penchant to seek out trouble. “Whatever were you doing in Flea Bottom?”

“Following a tip from a spider,” Rhaenys whispered. “With this, he will owe me a favor. A _big one._ ”

Daenerys heart plunged into her stomach. She knew of the spider her niece spoke of and was not at all reassured. She also knew what ‘big favor’ Rhaenys desperately craved. While she too longed for Robert Baratheon to finally meet justice, Daenerys at least had the sound of mind to realize that this obsession was leading Rhaenys down a dangerous path.

“Have you told Lady Ashara?” Daenerys probed. She was not as close with the Lady Dayne of Starfall as Rhaenys was, but their friendship was close enough that Daenerys knew that Ashara would want to know what misadventures Rhaenys was plotting.

Rhaenys’s face scrunched up with guilt before she wiped it away. “She knows.”

“I take it she was not pleased.”

Rhaenys gave a most unlady like snort of disbelief. She glanced over at Daenerys’s desk, where her dream journal remained opened. “I do not know how you and Ashara are so blessed to receive visions and portents from dreams and stars. I must not have enough Targaryen in me.” She let out a bitter sigh. “I am, as ever, a failure to my father.”

Daenerys reached out sympathetically and gripped Rhaenys’s hand tightly. “Do not despair, remember that even in our family it is rare to have dragon dreams.” She paused for a moment. “And it is not always a blessing.”

Rhaenys squeezed her hand and turned to gaze at her regretfully. “I know, but my heart cannot help but be envious.” She turned her head and gazed wistfully out the window. “What I would not give to be able to peer across distance and time and find my enemy. I would strike almost any bargain, promise my life away, for a chance to stand over Robert Baratheon and drive my steel straight through his black heart.” 

Daenerys glanced at the box, desiring to change the subject to something less likely to leave Rhaenys in a bloodthirsty mood. “How will this box help? Why did you bring it to me?”

“I hope that you will see where I am blind,” Rhaenys said. She reached over and unfastened the lid and pulled it open, revealing parchments littered with ink. “I read through them last night but they are naught but lists of goods and inventories of unimportant objects. _Useless_.”

Daenerys pulled out a paper and glanced over it. It was a list of different metals, forged and unforged; as if pulled from a blacksmiths inventory. Another described a wrecked ship and its cargo, but neither named the ship nor its location. “I do not think you are blind as I do not see how this is important either. You said the Spider was willing to trade a big favor for _this_?” 

Rhaenys nodded. “My thoughts exactly, but I trust your words more than his. I had hoped we might glean some information from this before I gave it to him.”

“Was there anything else in the box? A sigil or a sign?”

“No.”

Daenerys held out her hand. “Give me the pin. Perhaps it may hold a clue.” She plucked it from Rhaenys’s hand and looked over it critically.

“These are _Valyrian_ runes!” Daenerys exclaimed. The pin was slim, but the runes were inscribed in minute detail along the stem. She had only seen such runes in her books, and they were only fragments of what the Free Cities had preserved from their time as provinces of the Valyrian Freehold. To think that she held in her hand a piece of her ancestor’s ancient glory. But the passion of the moment fled as she remembered her niece’s earlier statement. “The man could enslave people with this?”

“Yes.”

Daenerys grimaced. While she generally reveled in the glories of the Valyrian Freehold, she did not, however, appreciate _all_ of its legacy. Daenerys saw the practice of slavery as abhorrent, and was infinitely glad that her ancestor Aegon and his sister-wives Visenya and Rhaenys had decided to not renew the practice once they had established their dominion over Westeros.

Daenerys rose from her bed and walked over to her bookshelf. She ran her fingers over the books she had collected until she found the one gifted to her by Archmaester Marwyn. Marwyn was one of the only maesters Daenerys was glad to have met, as his demeanor was far more pleasant and friendly than his more ‘learned’ colleagues who had mockingly given him the epithet, ‘Marwyn the Mage’ because of his desire to learn more about magic. His stance, Daenerys knew, was an unpopular one at the citadel but one that King Rhaegar appreciated, hence his frequent visits to King’s Landing. Daenerys for one always made sure to be present in court when Marwyn visited as he had a delightful way of irritating Grandmaester Pycelle.

Rhaegar had told Marwyn of her interest in Valyria’s past and its magic and Marwyn had commissioned a book called _Valyrian Vestiges_ for her with a list of all the known Valyrian artifacts known to the maesters of the Citadel. In it was a compendium of the Valyrian steel swords of Westeros and other artifacts known only by their old stories and legends.

She opened it up and flipped through its pages until she came to the passage she was searching for.

“According to this, piercings like this one were once given by Valyrian lords to their slave taskmasters. It was pierced through their tongue so that the slaves would obey their voice. In Volantis, they were used mostly in their mines. One story says that a taskmaster tried to use one against his Valyrian masters, and it melted through his tongue in punishment for his misuse of their magic.”

Daenerys glanced up from the book to Rhaenys, who was raptly paying attention. “It was not used by Valyrians themselves because the magic forged in these pins consumed the life of the one who was pierced. It was a type of blood magic. Furthermore, by all accounts, the piercings would kill the bearer if they tried to use it for something other than what their master wanted.”

“That would explain why this man lived in a hovel if he could not use it for his own gain.” Rhaenys tapped her lap in thought. “It would also explain why some Flea Bottom peasant had it if it consumed their life to fuel the magic in the piercing, there could be someone else. A ‘master’ who must have been using him for something.” Rhaenys’s tapping grew insistent. “On the other hand, Ashara said that when she gleaned through the enchantment he attempted to cast, his speech was broken. She thinks that he might have done the piercing himself.”

“So you think he may have been a thief?”

“Yes, I do,” Rhaenys said ominously. “Which begs the question as to who he stole from. Somebody is brazen enough to have Valyrian slave magic right under the nose of the king, and I want to know who it is.”

For that, Daenerys had no answers.

She returned her attention to the assortment of papers, glancing through a few more before finding one that caught her attention.

“Curious.”

Rhaenys looked over her shoulder. “What is?”

Daenery pulled out the letter. “This one, unlike the others, is written in charcoal.”

“And?”

Daenerys huffed at Rhaenys’s impatience. “Most of these letters were written in ink, which is the most common medium for writing, especially among the nobility and the maesters of the Citadel. The only people who write with charcoal are either small folk or Northmen.”

Rhaenys grinned as she made the connection. “Because it can get too cold to use ink.”

Daenerys started reading the letter aloud.

_“_ _He is tall and limber. His skill with a sword is unmatched by his peers, but he does not ride as well as I do. Like all sons of the nobility he has been educated in the ways of warfare and leadership. This is all I will tell you._

_I demand that you fulfill your vow and have him recognized as my son and heir. I abhor the excuses you give me when you stall fulfilling your promise._

Daenerys tapped the parchment with her finger. “The handwriting here is more like that of a woman’s than a man’s. As if they were taught by a septa instead of a measter. I’ve read enough manuscripts to know the difference.”

Rhaenys suddenly snatched the parchment from her hands and Daenerys watched as her niece’s eyes roved over the letter. “There is only one woman in the North commanding a keep who has a bastard son.”

Daenerys sucked in a breath as the realization overtook her. “Lyanna Stark?”

“Yes,” Rhaenys confirmed, her tone dark. “Just as there is only one man she can ask to legitimize him.”

Daenerys paled. “The King? Someone intercepted a letter from Lady Stark to the King!?”

“Or stole,” Rhaenys added. “I know of the son she refers to; Jon Snow.”

“Yes,” Daenerys said. “The ‘son of a hundred fathers;’ the Queen _loves_ to tell the story whenever the King summons Lady Stark to King’s Landing.” 

Personally, Daenerys thought Cersei loved to insult and humiliate anyone who dared to rival her beauty. Daenerys had seen Lady Stark a few times when she traveled to King’s Landing, and where Cersei was graceful and regal, Lyanna Stark was wild and fierce; but there was no question that the she-wolf of Winterfell was beautiful.

Rhaenys scowled. “I have heard the same story, but what was Cersei’s version?”

“I am sure the Queen’s version _is_ exaggerated,” Daenerys reminded her. She walked over to one of her chests and started rummaging through it to find something to wear. It would seem that she would need to be ready for the day ahead of them.

“There is no doubt about that,” Rhaenys said firmly. “But perhaps she has heard something from my father that she would hint at in front of others. You know how she likes to _subtly_ remind everyone how informed she is of everyone else’s dirty secrets.”

“I had not thought about that,” Daenerys admitted. She picked out one of her black dresses with the red stitching. She would wear classic Targaryen colors for today, especially if she was going to visit Rhaegar’s court. She started recalling what Cersei had said as she pulled her small clothes over her breasts. “She told the ladies of the court that Lyanna Stark’s cunt must have been as big as her mouth from all the men she laid with when she fled to Braavos to escape her upcoming marriage to Robert Baratheon. She only came back after she heard that her father and brother had been burned alive, for they had believed she had been kidnapped by Rhaegar. By the time she returned to Westeros, Rhaegar had put down the rebellion and killed Ned Stark at the Battle of the Trident. She came back with a child at her breast, who she had named Jon Snow.”

Rhaenys nodded, following along with the story, but she also eyed Daenerys’s movements as she pulled her smallclothes over her round rump. Daenerys, while appreciative of her niece’s lustful looks, continued. “And then the captured Northern Lords Rhaegar defeated at the Trident demanded where she had been all that time and who the father of her bastard was.”

Daenerys poked her arms through her dress and pulled it over her breasts before she started tightening the stitches. She continued reciting what Cersei had told the other ladies of the court. “Stark, in her shame, told them that she had fled her betrothal and bedded half of Braavos. She does not know who the father of her bastard is.”

“For a time,” Rhaenys interrupted. “I thought Jon Snow might have secretly been Robert Baratheon’s son and Lyanna Stark was trying to hide it by claiming he was her bastard.” A dark shadow crossed her face. “Once, I had planned to _meet_ him.”

Daenerys knew what usually happened when Rhaenys ‘ _met_ ’ with former rebels. Rhaenys, however, would not usually harm the children of rebels, as she wanted to be better than the murderer of her mother and brother. Daenerys realized she must have underestimated Rhaenys’s hatred of Robert Baratheon if she was willing to disregard the limits she had put upon her vengeance. “What changed your mind?”

“Ashara, who had known Lyanna before the Rebellion, said this to me; ‘Lyanna would rather have bedded a horse than be one of Robert’s whores.’ She also said that if Robert had ever managed to bed Lyanna, he would have boasted about it to every person in the Seven Kingdoms, never mind what he would have done if he had actually sired a child on her.”

“Strange then,” Daenerys pointed out, “that Stark would trade one unfaithful husband for a bastard son and a hundred fleeting lovers.”

Rhaenys shrugged her shoulders. “It is what she told the lords of the North and my father, when he demanded that she confess her whereabouts during the Rebellion in front of the royal court. Stark did not have a copper to her name but she had her body.” She glanced back to Daenerys. “The shame of her family’s demise must have been great indeed, for her to confess to whoring herself out in Braavos while her brothers died in Westeros. But even with the contempt of the Seven Kingdoms weighing her down like chains, she still managed to defeat the Ironborn and take back the North.”

“An admirable deed,” Daenerys said.

“Admirable, perhaps,” agreed Rhaenys. “But even whores can be admirable.” She strode over to the balcony and gazed across the business and bustle of King’s Landing. “I seem to have more questions than answers. My father ordered Lyanna Stark to describe her son to him? Why? Why would someone steal that letter even? Why would my father be interested in her bastard in the first place?”

“She _is_ the Warden of the North,” Daenerys pondered. “Without a legitimate heir, deciding who rules Winterfell and the North in the king’s name could cause a whole host of problems. Perhaps he is gauging whether or not to legitimize him?”

“I do not think so,” Rhaenys refuted. “If that were the case, would she not seek the king’s favor? Would she not have used flowery words to make her case that her bastard should be her heir? No, her reply is too short, curt, and she bluntly told him she would tell him nothing more.”

It was Daenerys’s turn to shrug. “She is a Northerner. They _are_ known for their bluntness.” She laughed as she suddenly recalled a funny memory. “Why, I remember when Lord Manderly of White Harbor came to King’s Landing with his granddaughter, Wynafred. It was for Daeron’s ascension to Prince of Dragonstone. Do you remember?”

Rhaenys seemed jolted by Daenerys’s attempt to change the subject, and she hesitated for a moment, but she succumbed and joined her in laughing at the memory. Her niece’s laughter was like a warm breeze blowing across the desert sand. Daenerys was glad that she was able to break Rhaeny’s dark mood, even if only for a moment.

“I do!” Rhaenys said gleefully. “Lords from all over Westeros came to present their daughters to Daeron hoping he would favor them and they all fell over each other trying to play the game and sabotage everyone else’s prospects!”

Daenerys strode over and pretended to give a courtly curtsy. “And what does Wyman Manderly, Lord of White Harbor, say when Daeron asks him why he has come to honor him on the day of his ascension?”

Rhaenys giggled at Daenerys’s theatrics and returned her curtsy with an exaggerated bow. She deepened her voice with a mockery of a northern burr. “’My prince, I have come with my granddaughter hoping that you would think she is beautiful and that you would marry her.’”

“Oh!” Daenerys crowed. “How Cersei’s jaw _dropped_ at Manderly’s brazenness!”

“I was with Ashara and we were talking to Ser Arthur,” Rhaenys added. “He actually smiled and said that it was about time someone just came out and said it!”

“Yes!” Daenerys said, clapping her hands together gleefully. “Then Daeron went on and danced with her _first_ before all the other maidens! He told Viserys that he did so because she was the only maiden who would actually flirt with him that night!”

They both laughed at the break in monotony that was court politics the small scandal had been.

Rhaenys reached up to softly caress Daenerys’s cheek. Daenerys leaned into the caress and practically nuzzled her niece’s hand, smiling all the while. 

“You,” Rhaenys said through her laughter. “You always have a way to light up a fire in my darkness don’t you?”

“I am a _dragon_ , dear niece,” Daenerys said teasingly. “Just like _you._ You say that you are smothered by darkness, but I say that the dragon you are breathes fire as hot as the desert sun!”

Rhaenys chuckled, and drew closer. “Your tongue makes beautiful words, _Dany._ ” Rhaenys moved closer until Daenerys could feel her niece’s hot breath on her face; her heart was thundering underneath her breast. “Let me show you how my tongue _appreciates_ your beautiful words.”

Their kiss was deep, long, and breathless. Daenerys closed her eyes and surrendered herself to her niece’s ministrations, falling back onto the bed and taking Rhaenys with her. She felt their breasts smash together as Rhaenys landed on top of her. Daenerys broke their kiss momentarily with a soft moan as they each sucked in the breath they were desperate for. The lust that started to pool in her lower belly was like a fire in a dry forest. Soon, it would consume her. Daenerys knew that Rhaenys would only fan the flames of their passion. It was a knowledge born of _many_ sweaty nights tangled together in each other’s bed. With how often Rhaenys snuck into Dany’s room, it was amazing that their entanglements had not been revealed before all of Rhaegar's court.

Rhaenys, ever the instigator of their affairs, leaned over her and reached up to cup one of Daenery’s soft breasts hidden so recently by her dress. Daenerys _giggled_ as Rhaenys tickled the underside of her breast and caressed a covered nipple with her thumb. Her laughter did not last long as Rhaenys swooped down again to capture her mouth and practically suck her tongue out from between her lips. Daenerys returned her niece's kiss as if she were drowning and her niece's kisses were the breath that would save her life, throwing all her heated passion into their shared lust for one another.

While their kiss deepened, Daenerys reached up with her own hands to _attempt_ to grasp her niece’s hanging orbs of flesh, only to discover once again that there was just too much breast for her dainty hands to hold.

Rhaenys laughed into their kiss at Daenerys’s failed bid to cup her breasts. Daenerys responded by _pinching_ Rhaenys’s nipples before reaching behind her and pulling her closer until their breasts were flush together once more. Rhaenys yelped before releasing a moan into her mouth at the sensation of their aroused nipples brushing each other. She pulled her legs up closer to Daenerys’s side until Rhaenys was straddling her body.

The few times they separated to breathe were few and far between as they caressed and fondled one another in the light of the morning sun. For the long moments of their shared enjoyment, of their shared _passion,_ it was just the two of them in the world.

Nothing else mattered.

Much to Daenerys’s disappointment, Rhaenys pulled back after flicking her dancing tongue one last time into Daenerys’s mouth. They breathed heavily as they stared longingly into one another’s purple eyes, their breasts still pressed tightly against one another in a mass of heat and sweat.

“ _Siren_ ,” Rhaenys accused her, her niece’s voice soft and sultry. “Luring me into your sweet embrace when we are needed elsewhere.”

Desire and _love_ welled within her. How could she have ever lived without Rhaenys? How could she have endured her brothers’ neglect and the queen’s scorn without the love her niece showered her with?“Lure, you say? You _leapt_ into my arms!”

Rhaenys reached up and tossed back one of Daenerys’s silver locks of hair. “So I did. Your sweet voice could calm the seas.”

“Or tame a dragon, apparently,” she teased softly.

Rhaenys thrummed with agreement as her lips curled back with a smile.

If only, Daenerys thought, she could make her niece smile more often. It made her more beautiful.

Rhaenys reluctantly leaned back and righted her clothes, her smile diminishing as her more serious demeanor returned. “Come,” she said. “Before we require a bath ahead of my father’s court.”

Daenerys smiled. “I do not mind succumbing to temptation.”

Rhaenys returned her smile but did not return to her embrace. Her purple eyes sharpened as Daenerys witnessed her niece’s vengeful thoughts return to the forefront of her mind. “Another day, my sweet. Not today, not when my prey is _this_ close.”

Daenerys reluctantly sat up beside Rhaenys again and smoothed the ruffles of her dress while smoothing her tussled hair back. She would have to braid it properly before long. “You still think the Spider knows where Baratheon is hiding?”

“I do,” Rhaenys confirmed. She glanced back at the box and the letter from Lyanna Stark. “Was there anything else of interest in there that you could see?”

“No,” Daenerys said. “There were only lists, inventories, and other monotonous details written down. That letter was the only thing with anything personal on it. It is more like one of the Iron Bank’s accounting books than a trove of secrets.”

Rhaenys hummed in thought. She picked up the Stark letter and her purple eyes narrowed as she scrutinized the words written in charcoal. “I suppose there is nothing left to it then than to see if the Spider knows the secret that will unravel all this.”

She folded the letter and hid it beneath her robes before snapping the box closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of what was originally posted by myself almost a year ago. I had wanted to edit it, as I did the other chapters, before publishing it. I am hoping to have the next chapter posted by either the end of this week or the begginning of the next.


	5. Chapter 4:  The King's Court

Chapter IV: The King’s Court

The sound of their feet echoing off the thick walls of the Red Keep as they walked to the throne room could not have been more different. It was a discordant cadence, a composition of soft and hard notes that nevertheless kept in tune with each other to form a unified music.

The soft pid-pad belonged to Daenerys’s dainty feet and the silk slippers she wore. The hard snap that followed Rhaenys was typical of the tough leather boots that were more commonly worn by guards than by a princess.

“You know Rhaegar dislikes it when you wear boots while attending his court,” Daenerys reminded her cautiously. “Do you not remember what happened last time?”

Rhaenys scowled in remembrance, “Vividly.”

When Rhaenys did not expand on her answer, Daenerys decided that her niece, older though she was, needed to be reminded. “After Cersei ratted you out, Rhaegar had the guards upend every inch of your chambers and collect every bit of boot and armor you had squirreled away before having it burned on a pyre in the Red Keep’s courtyard for everyone to see.”

Rhaenys grumbled. “It took me the better part of a year, not to mention several lengthy _stinging_ lectures from Ashara, before I was able to restore even a _fraction_ of what he burned that day.”

“It would appear you learned nothing then,” Daenerys said haughtily “if you return to the proverbial dragon’s lair making such a racket with every step.”

“It is more like a lion’s den then a dragon’s lair these days.” Rhaenys said darkly. “Cersei’s harpies fill my father’s court. They are nothing but sniveling cretins from the Westerlands dressed like the many colored birds of the jungles of Sothoryos who parrot her every word as if she were Mother Rhoyne reborn.”

“You should know by now that not all of them are Cersei’s anymore. You would know this if you paid any attention to the court’s politics. Many of them are Daeron’s now, though I am more inclined to call his people ‘followers’ rather than ‘harpies.’ They come from all across Westeros and they at least, unlike Cersei’s 'harpies,' as you say, have a mind of their own.”

“I _do_ pay attention,” Rhaenys protested. “Just unlike you, not everything they vomit while they huddle and scheme in the Iron Thrones's shadow interests me. Besides, my brother’s ‘followers’ are more likely to be slobbering hyenas hoping to earn his favor rather than genuine members of his inner circle.”

“Strange then,” Daenerys commented “that they are still here even when Daeron and Aenys are in Volantis with Viserys.”

“That _is_ strange” Rhaenys admitted. Her scowl deepened. “Perhaps they are making nice with Cersei while her sons are absent, hoping that the ‘help’ they provide her may earn some favor with her precious cubs when they return while also gaining favor with the queen. After all, why fish in one pond when there are two.”

Daenerys laughed at Rhaenys. “Where did you dig up that proverb?”

Rhaenys mumbled sheepishly.

“What was that?” Daenerys sang teasingly “I do not think I heard you.”

Rhaenys sighed with exasperation. “Ashara likes to quote proverbs from _Mother Rhoynar’s Rhymes._ It _amuses_ her. I may have picked up a proverb or two from listening to her.”

Daenerys ran it through her head. “It doesn’t rhyme.”

Rhaenys shrugged. “It loses something when it is translated from Rhoynish into the Common Tongue.”

“I did not know you knew how to speak Rhoynish.”

“Besides being the tongue of my mother’s ancestors, the magic Ashara teaches requires me to not only _know_ Rhoynish, but be able to speak it fluently, as if I were born to it.”

“How fluently?”

“I can sing _Nymeria’s Lament_ from _Ten Thousand Ships_ like a Nightingale sings birdsong.”

“Oh?” Daenerys was curious. “I have not heard that one. Can you sing me a stanza or two?”

Rhaenys hesitated. She had only shared her melodic voice with either Ashara or Arianne in private, far away from the prying eyes of King’s Landing. But one look into Dany’s pleading eyes and her heart thawed, if only a little. She stopped in her tracks and searched the hallway, and after finding no trace of eavesdroppers nor any sign of possible interlopers did she open her mouth and sing.

Her voice was slow, sad, and burdened with the weight of centuries of grief. Yet, it carried with it a beauty that defied the melancholic melody. The words were in Rhoynish, but Daenerys did not need to know the words to understand the song.

_“Far over the Narrow Sea,_

_To shores that once were free._

_Nevermore shall we roam,_

_Down the rivers we called home._

_Mother Rhoyne! Be still and sleep,_

_Lest the dragons see you weep._

_Hide away your tear-stained eyes,_

_As we sing our last good-bye!_

_Nevermore shall we see the stars,_

_That blazed above that land of ours!_

_Now the rivers run red with blood,_

_Drowning all hope beneath the flood._

_Our green trees replaced with fire,_

_A pyre to dragons’ green desire._

_The golden fields all turned to ash,_

_While warriors and warlords clash._

_Here amidst the sands of Dorne,_

_We water the dunes as we mourn._

_Ten Thousand ships burning bright,_

_Staining crimson across the night.”_

Daenerys wiped the tears that had come unbidden from her eyes with the hem of her long sleeve. “That was…beautiful, Rhaenys. Thank you. I…I wish I could sing for you.”

Rhaenys smiled and cupped Daenerys’s face, bring her closer. Her other hand she lowered, gripping her aunt’s generous yet firm rear. “You _sing_ for me in other ways.” She adored the blush that lit Dany’s face as Rhaenys smiled down at her.

Then, Rhaenys heard the unmistakable sound of approaching footsteps.

Snapping her hands away and stepping back swiftly she smoothed her dress and steadied herself, hardening her heart and steeling herself back into the fiery princess everyone knew. Daenerys did the same, the blush quickly draining from her pale face.

Rhaenys did not want to even contemplate what her father would do to her if it was even _rumored_ that she was bedding Daenerys. The punishment he would hand out would make her pile of burning boots seem like a slap on the wrist.

Worst of all though, Rhaegar would punish _Dany._

Rhaenys could suffer through whatever verdict her father handed out; she had… _ways_ to circumvent his discipline on her behavior. However, dragging her aunt into her antics was the last thing she wanted to do. Daenerys may have been in Rhaenys’s confidence, but she had not yet seen firsthand the dark world Rhaenys peered into everyday. In a way, her young aunt was still innocent. Daenerys may be one of the few people Rhaenys trusted with her secrets, but she was not mired in the mud like Rhaenys was.

There was blood on Rhaenys’s hands too, blood that she had _gladly_ shed while on her hunt for Robert Baratheon. There was no delusion there, but Rhaenys would be damned if Daenerys was dragged into that darkness and forever changed because of Rhaenys’s actions.

Someone started clapping…slowly, mockingly, and with great emphasis. It echoed off the solid stone and soon the two women were surrounded by its sound.

Rhaenys knew the who was coming.

Daenerys caught on a second after Rhaenys, but she was the first to dip into a polite curtsy as a regal woman strode around the distant corner of the hallway.

It was the daughter of Tywin, the Lannister Lioness, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms…

Cersei Lannister.

Her stepmother.

The queen wore a shimmering black dress with gold highlights; a blend of colors from the house she was born to and the house she married in to. A gold circlet that she routinely wore for court proudly rested upon her golden locks of hair. 

Behind her, Ser Barristen Selmy of the Kingsguard quietly stepped into view. He remained a respectful distance away as he stood vigilant.

“My, my, Rhaenys,” Cersei said smoothly, every word enunciated with a loud clap. “I had absolutely _no_ idea that something so beautiful could come from those lips of yours.”

Rhaenys had long ago learned how to react when slapped with one of her stepmother's backhanded compliments, but that still did not take away the anger that simmered inside her.

"My queen," Rhaenys said perfectly, knowing that even the slightest hint of disrespect would only allow Cersei the opportunity to punish her. She straightened back up from her curtsy and gazed without fear into Cersei's green eyes. "We were coming to join you in your preparations for my father's court."

Cersei hummed disapprovingly. "You're a bit late for that, I'm afraid, but no matter. I’m sure that you are presentable as you are.” Her green eyes flashed knowingly to the hem of Rhaenys's dress and the boots that hid underneath. "You would never disappoint Rhaegar, I know, not especially when he announces my son's imminent return from Volantis."

"Daeron is returning?" said Daenerys, surprised. "I had thought they were not to return until after the next election between the Elephants and Tigers. Viserys told me that they would have to wait until after the election to present Rhaegar’s trade proposition to them. They did not want to propose it to the current set of Triarchs for fear that the Triarchs would replace them would reject it out of hand.”

Rhaenys nodded in agreement. She idly wondered with amusement if Viserys's over inflated ego could have derailed the negotiation. Rhaenys knew better of Daeron. Her younger half-brother had thankfully inherited their shared father's cooler and calmer disposition. Nevertheless, she chose her next words carefully, knowing that Cersei would not react kindly to any doubt she cast on Viserys, as she would interpret her words as an insult to Daeron's negotiation skills by association. "Has something interrupted their negotiations?"

Cersei's lips curled into a small smile that revealed nothing. "Now Rhaenys, you know how much I loathe to spoil surprises. You will just have to wait along with everyone else."

Irritation crawled across Rhaenys. She was the eldest of Rhaegar's royal children, a princess of the Seven Kingdoms, and a skilled warrior. If the succession to the Iron Throne followed the traditions of the Rhoynar rather than the Andals, she would be the Heir to the Iron Throne rather than Daeron. 

She understood this, and had long ago accepted it as the reality that she lived in. What was grating on her was Rhaegar's reluctance to entrust her with any responsibilities of consequence, and Cersei's needling reminders of that fact only darkened her mood further.

It was not that her father distrusted Rhaenys, it was more that Rhaegar did not feel the need to inform her of any important matters of state. To her father, the duty of a princess was to further the influence of House Targaryen and to nurture the family. By contrast, it was the duty and the responsibility of the prince to maintain and expand their family's power and protect House Targaryen as a whole from its foes.

Such has it been since the day the Andals set foot in Westeros.

"Very well, my Queen," Rhaenys politely replied. "I am sure Daeron was successful in fulfilling our father's will. I look forward to his return as I have missed our games of cyvasse. I still have the winning streak, and I hope he has not become lax in the time he has been away to Volantis. I doubt Viserys has proven to be a worthy opponent."

Cersei's eyes narrowed as she scrutinized Rhaenys. Rhaenys schooled her face to remain relaxed, knowing that her stepmother would be searching for an excuse to verbally eviscerate her, especially since she could not _actually_ eviscerate her.

In truth, there was no underlying meaning to her words. Rhaenys had always had a cordial, if distant, relationship with her half-brother and genuinely enjoyed their occasional games of cyvasse. Furthermore, Rhaenys had no designs on the Iron Throne, as her mind dwelled on... _other_ things.

It was always fun to get under her stepmother's skin, however, and Rhaenys seldom let an opportunity pass to dig in a bit deeper so long as she did not have to suffer any consequences. It gave her a deep sense of satisfaction to watch Cersei get riled up. It was almost a game. Rhaenys could hear Tyrene's playful voice in the background of her mind; _Let's see how much we can poke the lion before it bares its fangs!_

"I think it would be more prudent Rhaenys that you find another with which to play your little game with. It's for your own good, you know. In other Houses, the bonds of sibling might have been innocuous, even encouraged, but _not_ in House Targaryen. We would not want the lords of Westeros to imagine that you harbored some... _affection_ for your half-brother. However would you find a husband then? No lord wants to be the future king's cuckold." 

Rhaenys was suddenly half tempted to kiss Daeron full on the mouth when he stepped off the boat from Volantis if only just to see the look on Cersei's face.

"Your lack of a husband has not gone unnoticed, my dear, and you're hardly going to get any younger. We need to find you a nice castle for you somewhere before you're too old to catch a young lord's attention." Cersei smiled as she reached up to her own face, trailing a long finger from her cheek to her neck, where a jeweled choker fit with fiery red ruby rested. "Not all women are blessed to keep their beauty as time marches on." Her green eyes roved over Rhaenys's body. "Your mother, I remember, was beautiful but, forgive me,... _frail_. An ailment that only worsened as she aged. Fortunately for you it seems that the dragon's seed has spared you of your mother's curse. How fortunate!" She laughed, but it was cold and contained not a sliver of compassion in it. "You know, most women would not take delight in the good fortune of the children of her husband's _previous_ marriage, but I am glad to be the exception. I will _celebrate_ the day when you ride away from King's Landing with a new husband."

Rhaenys smiled back. Oh...how she wished she could conjure the venom lacing her stepmother's every sweet word and shove them straight down Cersei's throat. Cersei enjoyed playing word games; it was her favorite pastime. She seemed to relish the task of finding new ways to veil her insults with false compliments.

Rhaenys had a choice before her. Return insult for insult and damn the consequences or...swallow it down like a bitter drought and find a better time and place.

She remembered, a few years ago after she had returned from Sunspear, when she made a slightly less than vague comment on the Queen's wine drinking habits. After the slap to her face Cersei delivered, in front of the court and the king no less, her father had ordered that she be confined to her room for a week and scolded her as if she were a child.

The simple thing to do would be to swallow her tongue, make some meaningless comment, and walk away. 

Rhaenys had never been one to do anything the _simple_ way _._

Danaerys knew her too well though, and she stepped forward and spoke quickly before Rhaenys's tongue even formed the first scathing word. "I for one hope that I end up with a husband who will not begrudge my desire to travel and see more of the world. I am a dragon after all. One who needs to spread her wings more. I do not want to roost in one place and watch the world from afar."

Rhaenys swallowed her tongue to prevent her from biting back at Cersei anyway, despite Daenerys's interference. Insulting Cersei and placing herself on the path of danger was one thing, but to include Daenerys in her mischief would have been a step too far. She did not want to be the cause for Cersei to focus her ire on her lover.

Cersei waited a moment before responding to Daenerys, her emerald eyes never wavering from Rhaenys. Only when it was clear that Rhaenys was not going to say anything in response did Cersei finally focus on Daenerys. Her lip curled upwards with delight.

"I do not see that becoming an issue. I am _confident_ that you shall marry a husband who shall fulfill your desire to see... _more_ of the world." Cersei said sweetly.

Rhaenys studied her stepmother shrewdly as she deciphered the true meaning of her words, knowing that Cersei did not harbor any affection for her husband's younger sister. Her stepmother had a plan for Daenerys, of that there was no doubt. That it involved marriage was obvious, and Rhaenys's blood boiled at the thought of one of Cersei's flamingos pawing at her aunt. What was especially alarming about this turn in their conversation was how direct Cersei was being. She was usually far more subtle that this. Rhaenys could only draw the conclusion that Rhaegar had promised Daenerys's hand to someone already otherwise Cersei would not be so bold...but _who_? 

No lords immediately came to mind, as the many men she knew of had been trying to marry _Rhaenys,_ not Daenerys. It would have made more sense if Cersei was speaking of Rhaenys as she was the more desirable of the two princesses to marry since a marriage to Rhaenys would tie her husband to both the Iron Throne and Dorne; a boon to whatever lord would be lucky enough to survive bedding her.

There was also the fact that Daenerys was the daughter of the Mad King. That fact alone had deterred most suitors from even considering Daenerys as a potential bride. They viewed Daenerys as tainted; the child of the man who set King's Landing aflame with wildfire. Rhaegar, and by extension his children, were not afforded this same judgement as many had long known of Rhaegar's efforts to remove his father from power or had conveniently forgotten that Rhaegar and Daenerys shared the same parents.

The less said of Viserys, the better.

It was pure hypocrisy, Rhaenys knew, for any man to dare and voice that Daenerys's pedigree as a reason for why Daenerys was the least prospective of the princesses to marry. Any man foolish enough to voice such thoughts would have been ostracized from court at the least. A comment on Daenerys's parentage was a comment on Rhaegar's own after all.

So the question remained as to who would overlook the ' _flaws_ ' a marriage to Daenerys presented and pursue her regardless? In addition, who would _Cersei_ have absolute confidence in for her to risk taunting Daenerys with it? If there was one thing everyone knew about Cersei, it was that she despised being proven wrong. In Cersei's mind, she was the queen and her word was final and absolute. Then there was the other matter of this being the first instance that Rhaenys had heard of any potential of Daenerys being married in the near future. Such an event would not remain a secret for long.

A hedge knight? No, Rhaenys concluded, Rhaegar would not allow his own sister to marry so far below her station, if only because it would reflect badly on him. Perhaps a lord of the Crownlands? They were loyal, rich, and were the most likely to look past the stigma of being the Mad King's daughter, but that possibility did not make much sense with what Rhaenys knew of her father. Rhaegar was always looking to expand the influence of House Targaryen and marrying Daenaerys to an already loyal house in the Crownlands would not do that.

What seemed most likely to Rhaenys would be a potential marriage to one of the Triarchs of Volantis. An alliance or agreement with Volantis had long been one of her father’s goals. His fascination with Valyria, and its legacy, bordered on obsession. One of the consistencies in her father’s reign was his desire to establish closer relations with Valyria’s old colonies. A marriage between a princess of House Targaryen and a son of Valyria’s ‘First Daughter’ seemed like something her father would concoct.

Daenerys had the purest Valyrian blood in all of Westeros. She was also the blood of House Targeryen, the last of the forty noble families that had ruled the Valyrian Freehold before the Doom destroyed Valyria. However, even that theory was fraught with potential problems. The title of triarch was an elected position and therefore its holder could lose it. It did not seem logical for Rhaegar to gamble away Daenerys on a Volantene triarch who may not be in power the next year.

Scenario after scenario played out like a mummer’s play in Rhaenys’s head, and yet none of them seemed as plausible as the next. Rhaenys considered the possibility that Cersei could be bluffing, though her stepmother was not known to make a false threat.

She was missing something...but what? The currency of the Red Keep may be secrets, but a decision by Rhaegar to betroth Daenerys would be like dumping a dragon’s hoard into a den of thieves. It would be impossible to keep such a thing a secret outside of the royal family.

It was a trick then. A deception. A filthy lie. It galled Rhaenys that Cersei would toy with Daenerys with a threat like this.

Daenerys hesitated for a few seconds, her face turning pale as realization sank in. "I...I thank you for your...your wish that I find a-"

"No," interrupted Cersei. "Not a wish. Not a dream. _Destiny_ , my dear." She reached with her hand and firmly grasped Daenerys's jaw, her long fingers tracing her throat. A single finger tapped Dany's cheek. Cersei tilted Daenerys's face upwards and regarded her like one would study a piece of jewelry…or livestock. "I do look forward to seeing you in a wedding dress. I am sure that you will make a radiant bride."

Rhaenys was practically grinding her teeth. She resisted the almost overwhelming urge to rip Cersei's claws away from her lover's face. She would not though, as such an action would only incite more trouble.

Cersei released Daenerys and stepped back with a smug smile etched on her face. "Now come with me girls, nothing more would bring me pleasure today than to have you sit by me during Rhaegar's court."

She turned on her heel and began striding away, clearly expecting the two princesses to follow without question. They reluctantly did, with Ser Barristan striding behind them, oblivious as always to Cersei’s true demeanor. Not a word passed between them as they made their way to the throne room. As they drew closer to their destination, small crowds of people were huddled together talking quietly. They bowed to Cersei as she passed them and Rhaenys could tell exactly who was currently in her favor, and who was in _disfavor,_ by how fast they bent into a bow. The ones who bore the withering stare of Cersei’s piercing eyes practically snapped in half as they contorted themselves into either a lordly bow or a submissive curtsy. 

One detail that caught Rhaeny’s roving eyes was the diversity of the lords from the Seven Kingdoms present in the Red Keep today. Of course there was always a lord or lady present from each kingdom, conducting business and representing their liege lords before the king, but there was more than usual today. It was also more common for the lords of the Crownlands to be huddled within the walls of the Red Keep but now counted among their ranks were lords from as far north as the Riverlands and as far south as the marches of the Reach. 

Among the more surprising appearances of the lords she recognized was Lord Randall Tarly of Horn Hill and Lord Tytos Blackwood of Raventree Hall who was joined by his wife, Lady Catelyn Blackwood, formerly of House Tully of Riverrun. A brief scowl flickered across her face as Rhaenys recalled House Tully’s betrayal of her family when they joined with Robert Baratheon in rebellion against her mad grandfather. Catelyn _Tully,_ Rhaenys remembered, had been betrothed to Brandon Stark and had been set to marry him had Lyanna Stark not disappeared. Her disappearance, and Brandon Stark’s subsequent accusations against Rhaegar, had been the spark that had set off the rebellion. Catelyn Tully’s betrothal to Brandon Stark had abruptly ended when Aerys executed him for treason against the crown. Hoster Tully, her father and the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands, had then betrothed her to Tytos of House Blackwood, one of the most powerful and influential houses in the Riverlands.

Cersei noticed Rhaenys’s curiosity and smiled. “It is a testament to Rhaegar’s skills as a king that he is able to bring even his former foes to bow before the Iron Throne. Today is a day for _all_ of the Seven Kingdoms, for all of Westeros.”

Rhaenys thought over Cersei’s words and found a fault in them. “What of the North? I see here lords and ladies from only six of the seven kingdoms. What of them? Do they not pay homage to the Red Keep?”

Cersei hesitated a moment before answering, though she appeared untroubled. “Ser Barristan, do you know if Harrion Karstark has arrived from White Harbor?”

“No, my queen” intoned the old knight. “Would you like me to send a page to inquire with the harbormaster?”

Cersei shook her head. “No. I know it is a long journey for them and I am sure they will be here by the time Daeron returns.”

“House Karstark? I am not familiar with that house. Why did you invite them?” Daenaerys asked.

“Well, _Lady_ Lyanna Stark cannot live forever and so we must look to the future. When House Stark dies with her we must have a loyal House ready to take up the mantle of ruling the North so that do not squabble among themselves or choose a family that is less than loyal.”

“Did not Rickard Karstark, the current lord of Karhold and Harrion’s father, ride with Eddard Stark against my father at the Trident?” Rhaenys asked pointedly. “I would think their loyalty to House Targaryen to already be…questionable.”

“Rickard Karstark is certainly a fool” Cersei agreed. “It is his sons that I wish to win over. I am told that Harrion, unlike his father, is more amenable to our ‘ _southern ways_ _’_ than his father ever will be. The North has always had the blood of the Kings of Winter governing it and as much as I desire to install one of my cousins from the Westerlands as the lord of Winterfell, I doubt it would be a month before some barbarous descendant from that cursed crown murder him in his sleep. Winterfell is the lynchpin that holds the North together, geographically and politically, and it has always had a Stark ruling from it. House Karstark is a cadet branch of House Stark and so it is only natural that they take the helm when Stark is laid in the crypts beneath Winterfell.”

Rhaenys found her stepmother’s logic to be solid, but there a few other things that bothered her. “What of Lyanna Stark’s bastard, Jon Snow? I know it for a fact the she has claimed him as her heir, despite his illegitimacy.”

Cersei laughed. “That bastard govern the North in _Rhaegar_ _’_ _s name_?! Hah! Not likely my dear. You had better not let the king hear you even suggest such a thing. He has always hated Lyanna Stark and his intent is that the Stark name die with her. I would not be surprised if her bastard soon joined his mother in death.”

Both Rhaenys and Daenerys were surprised by Cersei’s blunt statement. Even Ser Barristan, who was legendary for his unflappability, raised an eyebrow in question. Cersei did not offer any further explanation to clarify her words, leaving them all wondering at her true meaning, or if there even was one.

“What of House Bolton then?” Rhaenys continued after a moments pause. “The Red Kings of the Dreadfort are almost as old as the Kings of Winter. I would have thought it poetic that House Stark’s ancient rival take over governorship of the North when House Stark is gone.”

The scowl that flickered across Cersei’s face did not escape Rhaeny’s notice “Roose Bolton would have made a good warden to be sure, but he attempted to gain the North too early. After Lyanna Stark reclaimed Winterfell from the Ironborn she also claimed wardenship of the North. Roose Bolton rebelled against her of course, but unfortunately he underestimated her. He paid for his foolishness with his life. All that remains of House Bolton after that was his son, Domeric, who has grown up in Winterfell under Stark’s influence. From what Lord Baelish tells me, he and Stark’s bastard are practically brothers.”

The bitterness underlying Cersei’s voice was unmistakable and Rhaenys was delighted to find a crack in Cersei’s gleeful mood. She decided to needle Cersei a little, as it was obvious that Cersei had reached out to Domeric Bolton if she had asked their Master of Spies, Petyr Baelish, about his relationship with the Stark bastard. Honestly, Rhaenys could care less about the heir to the Dreadfort, but she always enjoyed reveling in any mistake Cersei made, no matter how miniscule. “Did you at least send him an invitation? You never know what people would do for power and brothers have betrayed brothers before.”

Rhaenys could see that Cersei did not want to answer her truthfully, but a lie would be as good as an admittance of failure. “He decided not to come. I could have convinced the king to summon him of course, but his decision to remain in the North tells me that he was unsuitable to consider as a future warden of the North. I will not have such lords with divided loyalty one day serve my son when he sits on the Iron Throne.”

Cersei’s logic was flawless again sound but nevertheless Rhaenys could detect the frustration at being refused underneath Cersei’s er words anyway.

Their arrival at the throne room put an end to their conversation.

The walls were covered with the black and red livery of House Targaryen in addition to the skulls of the dragons that her ancestors had once rode. 

Rhaenys knew that the dragon skulls were there to display the Targaryen’s glorious Valyrian heritage but she herself found it to be morbid. The skulls could very well inspire awe, but to Rhaeyns the skulls served as nothing but a reminder that the dragons the Targaryen’s had used to conquer the Seven Kingdoms were long reduced to bones and wall ornaments. The magic that her house had once boasted of dwindled to nothing. It was an especially bitter reality for Rhaenys to accept as she was actually capable of performing magic. She had long ago had to accept that half of her heritage, her Valyrian blood, would remain unused.

Rhaenys had always been uncomfortable in the presence of the dragon skulls. Their hollow eye sockets bored into her soul and even now, surrounded by hundreds of people, Rhaenys could feel their silent stare as she walked through the crowd. Daenaerys, by contrast, practically preened in the skulls’ presence.

She buried her unease as they approached the Iron Throne. Rhaegar was not yet in attendance so they veered off to the right side of the throne where the royal family traditionally stood while attending court. 

Rhaenys smiled as she spotted the fluff of golden hair that belonged to little Alyssa, her younger sister. Alyssa, which was short for Alyssane (Daenerys laughed about Alyssa needed to grow into her name), was only seven namedays old and she was the Rhaenys’s favorite of Cersei’s brood. Many compared to Alyssa to Cersei, likening the daughter to her mother’s beauty. Little Alyssa had Cersei’s golden hair but she had Rhaegar Valyrian purple eyes, like Rhaenys herself. Rhaenys agreed with them as it would be a lie to not admit that her stepmother was beautiful. However, where Cersei’s smile was cold, Alyssa’s was kind. Where Cersei’s laugh was cruel, Alyssa’s was joyful. Rhaenys urgently hoped that her little sister would continue to be as bright as sunshine as she grew but she also knew that she had little say in the matter as Cersei rarely allowed Rhaeny to interact with Alyssa outside of official functions or family gatherings.

“Mama!” Alyssa called sweetly. She gripped the hem of her dress and started twirling back and forth. “Look at my dress! Look at my dress! Uncle Jaime said you had one like it when you were small like me!”

Cersei’s smile, genuine and warm, lit her face as she reached down to give Alyssa a small and brief hug before straightening up. She gave a short wave of her hand at Alyssa’s latest minder, another young noble from the Crownlands. Rhaenys had forgotten her name again but did not bother and try to remember it. Cersei never let anyone attend to Alyssa for when Cersei was otherwise occupied for more than a few months. Daughters of the lords of the Crownlands and the Westerlands rotated in and out at Cersei’s whim. Cersei claimed that it was so that she could reach out to many young women and give them time attending court but everyone knew it was so that Alyssa never became attached to any other woman other than Cersei.

Ser Jaime Brightroar, Cersei’s twin, stood slightly behind his niece in the shining golden armor and the resplendent white cloak of the Kingsguard, a crooked smile on his handsome face. Many had always wondered at his decision to remain with the Kingsguard even after Rhaegar had given him the choice of leaving honorably and becoming House Lannister’s heir to Casterly Rock and the Westerlands, Rhaenys among them. The offer had been a part of the reward Rhaegar granted to Lord Tywin Lannister for coming speedily to Rhaegar’s summons during the war against Robert Baratheon’s rebellion and being responsible for Robert’s capture at the Battle of the Bells at Stoney Sept. 

Rhaenys herself regarded Ser Jaime highly for saving her mother from Aerys’s wrath when her grandfather finally snapped. His act of defending Elia Martell from Aerys’s fanatics combined with his attempt to prevent the wildfire barrels Aerys’ pyromancers had planted in King’s Landing had resulted in Rhaegar awarding him the epithet ‘Brightroar’ in homage to the lost Valyrian sword of House Lannister.

“Oh? Has Uncle Jaime been telling your stories about when we were kids again?” Cersei asked sweetly. She gave her brother a playful smile that would have sent anyone else running for the hills and lowered her. “Did he tell you about the time I made him wear one of my dresses so that we would look the same?”

Alyssa gasped with the wonder only a child could feel and twirled around to her uncle. “Is that true Uncle Jaime?”

A red splash of color bloomed on Ser Jaime’s face but to his credit he answered calmly. “…yes, but we were five Alyssa and did not know any better.”

Alyssa glanced back and forth between Ser Jaime and her mother. “Did it work? Did you look just like each other?”

“We did after I cut your mother’s hair” Jaime replied glibly.

“Quiet you” commanded Cersei. “Is it not in your oaths to keep the queen’s secrets?” She turned her attention back to Alyssa and donned on a more serious face. “Now remember my little golden dragon that you need to stay quiet and still while your father speaks today. He is going to make an important announcement about your brothers coming back.”

Alyssa made an effort to stay still, though she still twirled back and forth a little. “Yes mother.” Then all that energy returned as she jumped onto the balls of her feet at the sight of Rhaenys and Daenerys drawing near.

“Dany! Rhaeny! You’re here too!”

Daenerys snickered at Alyssa’s name for Rhaenys. Alyssa had not quite reached the point where she could properly pronounce her aunt’s and sister’s Valyrian names and so she called them what she could (Daenerys had always found it funny that Alyssa called her Rhaeny, which sounded like ‘rainy.’)

Rhaenys gave Alyssa a warm smile despite herself. She may despise her stepmother but she adored her little sister. "Good morning Alyssa, are you excited to attend father's court?"

Alyssa nodded excitedly. "Yes! Mother said that Father is going to tell everyone that our brothers are coming back home soon! Do you think Daeron and Aenys and Uncle Vis will bring me back presents?”

“I do.”

“Promise?”

Rhaenys laughed gently, “As sure as the sun rises.”

She and Daenerys took their place amongst the royal family, with Cersei and Alyssa closest to the Iron Throne flanked by Ser Jaime Brightroar. They were usually joined by Daeron and Aenys. Viserys, her uncle and Daenerys’s older brother, would have been between them. Rhaenys and Daenerys always remained at the end with Ser Barristan. 

The ornate doors on the opposite side of the chamber that led to a set of rooms used by the Small Council opened as Ser Arthur Dayne, the Lord Commander of her father’s Kingsguard, strode out while the other members of the Small Council followed behind him. Ser Arthur was Ashara’s older brother and by almost universal acclaim the most skilled and dangerous knight in all of the Seven Kingdoms. He had always been kind to Rhaenys ever since her mother died. She did not know if this kindness was born out of guilt for not being there to protect her mother or if that was just who Arthur was.

Rhaenys pondered sometimes as to who would win in a fight between the two Daynes. Ashara or Arthur? Ashara had always assured Rhaenys that although she was skilled with a blade, she was not Arthur’s equal. However, Rhaenys had no doubt that Ashara’s mastery over magic would even the scales at least if not tip then in Ashara’s favor. The fact that it would be a complete shock would no doubt catch the even almost unflappable Ser Arthur by surprise.

Rhaenys had once asked Ashara why she had kept her talent for magic a secret from her brother. Ashara had replied that she did not want her brother to have to choose between her and his loyalty to Rhaegar, his king and friend.

Rhaenys wondered if Ashara did not _want_ to know the answer as to who Arthur would choose.

Close behind Ser Arthur was the Hand of the King, Lord Jon Connington of Griffin’s Roost in the Stormlands. Lord Connington had been one of the few lords that did not follow Robert Baratheon into rebellion. He had been originally been appointed by King Aerys after his predecessor was dismissed for incompetence and Rhaegar had appointed him as his own Hand after Aerys drank wildfire as a reward for working with Lord Tywin Lannister successfully at the Battle of the Bells to capture Robert Baratheon. He was not blamed for Baratheon’s subsequent escape during the chaos of King’s Landing’s burning by Aerys’s pyromancers. Lord Connington was obsessively loyal to her father and was dutiful in performing his duties, but he was cold toward Rhaenys for some unknown past misdeed she had no doubt. 

Though it was hard to pick him out in the crowd if you were not looking for him directly, Rhaenys spotted Tyrion Lannister as he joined the other Small Council members as they filed into the chamber. Rhaenys greatly enjoyed his words and his wit, but what was much more entertaining to her was the way that Tyrion eternally irritated Cersei. No one was ever quite sure why, or even _how_ , Tyrion was on the Small Council as the Master of Coin. There were several theories ranging from Tywin wanting Tyrion to live in perpetual exile from Casterly Rock to Tyrion being very shrewd when it came to organizing the Red Keep’s treasury. In truth, it was probably a little bit of everything. However, Rhaenys’s favorite theory was that Tyrion won the position in a bet with Petyr Baelish.

Lord Petyr Baelish of the Fingers, more commonly known as ‘Littlefinger,’ was the Master of Whispers. Littlefinger had taken over the position as Master of Whispers soon after the end of Robert’s rebellion after Rhaegar had ordered that his father’s own Master of Whispers be hunted down and executed. Many people underestimated Littlefinger; they took one glance at his smirking face, small frame, and slender body and assumed he was weak. Rhaenys probably would have believed that too if Ashara had not warned her off and taught her differently. The small folk, and many of the nobility, believed that Littlefinger was a charitable benefactor who sponsored festivals and traded with the Free Cities of Essos. His true vocation, as well as the probable source of much of his information, were the brothels and whorehouses he owned that were littered all across the Seven Kingdoms and even Essos. In truth, Rhaenys had little to no interaction with him and was more than happy to keep it that way.

The other members of the Small Council took their chairs, but they did not interest her as much as the others. Lord Keven Lannister was a just and fair Master of Laws, but it was obvious to anyone with a brain between their ears that he was here as a favor to Tywin and Cersei. Lord Paxter Redwyne, one of the Reach’s most influential lords and commander of one of the largest fleets in Westeros, had been handpicked by Rhaegar to be the Master of Ships as a reward for his help against the Iron Fleet years earlier. Grand Maester Pycelle appeared as ancient and decrepit as he always did as he hobbled behind the rest. It was a continuing source of disbelief to Rhaenys that the Citadel had not sought to replace the old man. 

The only member of the Small Council not in attendance was her mother’s brother, her Uncle Oberyn. After the war, Prince Doran convinced Rhaegar to add a new position to the Small Council as a reward for Dorne’s sacrifices. Rhaegar conceded and so the he created the position of Voice of Dorne and awarded Prince Oberyn the title for when he led a company of Dornish spearmen in a charge against Eddard Stark’s Northern rebels at the Battle of the Trident. Privately, Doran had revealed to Rhaenys that he had argued for the position so that there was someone there at court who was guaranteed to be her ally and protect her interests as princess. Doran’s trust in Rhaegar had turned to ash after Elia was murdered and he did not put any stock in Tywin Lannister’s word that Rhaenys’s royal inheritance would not be diminished by the children that Rhaegar and Cersei would have.

Rhaenys knew that Uncle Oberyn was not present because he only cared to attend the Small Council when its agenda concerned either Dorne or Rhaenys herself, which was rare. She was sure that this habit of his was welcomed by the rest of the Small Council for the reason that her uncle delighted himself for his talent in irritating people. It was a skill he had refined to an art and took great pride in.

The arrival of the Small Council heralded that the king was soon to arrive and therefore the conversations in the throne room started to grind to a halt until the cacophony of voices dwindled to a few whispers.

The ornate doors detailed with the glorious history of House Targaryen opened wide as her father strode through them. He was dressed immaculately in royal garb with the red and black color of their family highlighting his robes. His crown, a golden band studded with lustrous obsidian and fiery rubies, rested on his silver hair. A dragon was encrusted with crimson rubies on a ceremonial breastplate, similar to the armor he wore at the Battle of the Trident. His face was devoid of emotion, but Rhaenys could see triumph dancing in his purple eyes. 

All the lords and ladies of the court bowed or curtsied as he walked past them as he made his way to the Iron Throne. As complicated as her relationship was with her estranged father, Rhaenys had to admit that he made for an inspiring sight. The small folk practically worshiped her father. He was the hero of their epic; the righteous son who overthrew his tyrant father and saved the kingdom. He was also the victim of their tragedy; the noble prince falsely accused of raping an innocent maiden who rises to triumph and clears his name only to lose his princess to treachery.

If only her father was as interested in revenge as he was in Daeron’s accomplishments. Perhaps then they would have something in common with each other besides the blood of dragons and purple eyes.

The only sound that could be heard was the metal tap of Rhaegar’s boots as he ascended the Iron Throne, everyone else was silent in tepid anticipation. Rhaegar turned and sat at on the Iron throne and surveyed his subjects for a long moment before he began to speak. His voice was like a minstrel’s song, smooth and alluring. You could not help but want to listen to it more.

"For nigh on three hundred years has House Targaryen ruled these seven kingdoms and brought an end to the eternal conflicts between them that had plagued this continent. In that time, Westeros has become stronger than ever before; united under the guidance of the Iron Throne. Here, from King's Landing, we have ushered in an age of peace and prosperity that was all but unknown to your ancestors.”

“Today marks a new chapter in the story of Westeros.”

“While Westeros has enjoyed the guidance of House Targayen, our sister continent Essos across the Narrow Sea has stagnated in the shadow of ancient Valryia. Since the Doom engulfed the peninsula and created the Smoking Sea, the bones of that once great empire devolved into bickering city-states trying to re-capture the glory of the dragon-lords who had laid their foundations.”

“They have failed.”

“These so-called ‘Free-Cities’ languish on the edges of Essos as they slowly wither, the ocean slowly eroding their walls while Dothraki push them back into the sea. Mercenaries loyal to no man battle endlessly among the ruins of the old Andal kingdoms and the forgotten Rhoynar principalities. Deformed demons slink from smoking ruins of Valyria to spread their sickness across the continent. What greatness that remains of the cultures and wealth of Essos is a mere echo of the glory they enjoyed under the dragonlords of old. Their sad fate is a tragedy worthy of any stage."

"So I acted."

“Some months ago I sent my son and heir, Prince Daeron, to Volantis to negotiate a trade treaty. It was to be the first step in establishing an alliance that would have raised Westeros to new heights on the world’s stage. Volantis is the First Daughter, the eldest of the colonies established by the Valyrians outside their peninsula. Its people are proud and pure. They can trace their bloodline back to the Valyrians who first carved the cornerstones of the Black Walls. As king of the last remaining house of the dragonlords, I could think of no other city in Essos more suited to establishing an alliance with. Your prince has more than succeeded in the endeavor I tasked him with.”

“The Triarchs of Volantis have decreed that it is time for the First Daughter to come under the aegis of House Targaryen. They journey with my son with the intention of bending the knee to the Iron Throne and swearing fealty to House Targaryen. Prince Daeron, for this magnificent achievement, shall be crowned the first Prince of Volantis.”

Rhaegar stood up from the Iron Throne suddenly with a swiftness only a skilled swordsman could produce. He towered over all of the people who stood before him in rapturous awe as his voice reached a triumphant crescendo.

“A new age is dawning upon the Seven Kingdoms, one that will see Westeros rise to become a greater realm than even Old Valyria! The lords of this continent who have long supported House Targaryen shall reap a reward for their loyal service to the Iron Throne! _All_ shall partake in the glory of this great undertaking, for today I am the King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realms and soon…I will be _Emperor of_ _Essos_!”

Her father’s pronouncement echoed throughout the chamber, filling it with the sound of his passionate belief As soon as his last word faded into silence, the crowd before Rhaenys erupted into adulation, cheering and yelling in complete approval of their king's ambition. Rhaenys looked around her at her fellow royalty as they reacted to her father's speech. The smile of self-satisfaction and pride that adorned Cersei's face reminded her of a lion's hungry grin. Alyssa, her sweet sister, was too young to truly understand the importance of their father's words but she laughed and clapped along with everyone else, merely enjoying the happiness she saw around her. The Kingsguard around them could have been the same man, as they all stared up at Rhaegar in wonder and fierce determination, as if they personally had been called upon to act in bringing Rhaegar's dreams to fruition.

Daenerys's face was lit in rapturous joy, as if the pages of their family's history books had come alive to stand there with her.

But Rhaenys did not feel triumph.

She did not feel joy.

She felt only sadness and loss, for she wondered if they would have clapped for little Aegon if it were he who was returning from Volantis instead of Daeron. She wondered if her mother, rather than Cersei, would have felt such wondrous pride in her son's achievement.

Rhaenys wondered if she would have celebrated with her father instead of sulking in bitter resentment.

She would never know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. 'Nymeria's Lament' is a poem I crafted specifically for this chapter. "Ten Thousand Ships" is a book mentioned in the "A Song of Ice and Fire" Series.
> 
> 2\. It was not until after I had written it that I realized that I had turned Cersei into the evil stepmother. I doubt, however, that Rhaenys will be content to play the part of a hapless Cinderella.


End file.
